


Wheel In The Sky

by dorkilysoulless (custodian)



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Star Wars Setting, Bounty Hunter Dean, Canon-Typical Torture, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Drunk Sex, F/M, Force-Sensitive Castiel, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Multi, Recreational Drug Use, SO MUCH ALCOHOL, Setting-Typical Planetary Genocide, Setting-Typical references to slavery, Slow Burn, Vailant Attempts On The Part of the Writer and His Beta to make Starkiller Base Make Sense, dubcon, mild to moderate medical horror, so feel free to ring in on that, the author is uncertain if he is writing hurt/comfort at this point
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2018-05-23 08:52:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 69,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6111391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/custodian/pseuds/dorkilysoulless
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The NEW REPUBLIC holds the Core, but IMPERIAL REMNANTS persist throughout the galaxy.  The RESISTANCE, led by General Leia Organa, stands against the FIRST ORDER, and NEW HEROES ARISE to aid her.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>However, other agents of the DARK SIDE lie in wait, seeking opportunities to seize power.</i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>DEAN WINCHESTER, a bounty hunter and smuggler indifferent to the struggle, has come to HOSNIAN PRIME to ask his estranged brother SAM for help...</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I could blame [treefrogie84](http://archiveofourown.org/users/treefrogie84/pseuds/treefrogie84) for this, but I would be lying. She is, however, an excellent beta and enabler.
> 
> Yes, "slow burn" means it will take some time before I can fulfill my promise of "explicit." Please be kind. We'll get there. I promise. 
> 
> Character and additional tag lists will expand with each episode. I've included the obvious for now, but anticipate an ensemble. Star Wars specific locations, species, etc. will be linked in the text for the unfamiliar.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we meet the Winchesters.

**[Fulluusub](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Fulluusub), [Sullust](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Sullust), Sullustan System, Outer Rim**

**22 Years Ago**

 

Dean Winchester can’t sleep.

Fulluusub is an underground city; it is a box of industrial generators and water filtration systems; speeders, social chatter, and street vendors.  The drone and drang rises high at morning, midday, and evening, loud enough that it almost overwhelms the next-door neighbors’ too-loud vids, or the children upstairs.  

Sometimes the streets are loud enough to drown out the machines completely: street celebrations during [smashball](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Smashball) season, or when the Glow Festival has all the people hanging lights from the buildings and speeders and even the city-cavern’s roof.

(His father tells him that in space there are even better lights.  Dean thinks he’d like to go to space someday.)  

Tonight is quiet.  Not silent -- there are no silent nights in Fulluusub -- but it is quiet.  His mother says it is because of  “curfew.”  Dean doesn’t know the word, but instinctively he hates it because the first time she’d used it her smile didn’t reach her eyes.  He’d wanted to climb up into her lap and tell her everything would be okay, but she already had Sammy in her arms, so he’d stayed on his blanket and set up his blocks so that his stuffed tauntaun could crash through them instead.

That was a week ago.  His parents have been speaking low to each other when they think he is not looking.  Two nights ago, they fought in the early hours, quiet enough not to wake Sam, but loud enough he could almost make out their words through the wall.      

There is something heavy about the quiet tonight.  Dean kicks away his blankets and sits up in  his bed, instinctively moving to the corner where it meets the wall, as if the quiet and the darkness are a tangible thing that might weigh him down less if he backs up against the pale white of them.

He slips a tentative foot off of the bed.  His bare toes only just touch the floor, and he starts to shift his weight to them so that he can move fast to his parents’ room and burrow into the safe warmth between them.

Instead, he is thrown from his bed and to the floor as his bedroom wall explodes.  

Dean stares woozily at the yellow-eyed [Zabrak](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Zabrak) that storms in through the breach, a gang of thugs in tow.   

He tries and fails to cry out.  They ignore him.  He tastes blood.  He can’t breathe.

Down the corridor, his mother shouts.  Dean can hear his father’s heavy footfalls he rushes down the corridor.  There’s a cacophony of voices.  A report of blaster fire.  

When Sammy’s cries join the din, Dean forces his way to his feet.  He hurts, but the adrenaline makes him fast.  He darts down the hall to his little brother’s room.  He is too small to reach into the crib, but he has seen his mother and father use the latches enough times to find them and pull down one side of it.  

Dean lifts his brother and squeezes him tight to his chest.  His heart pounds as he bolts for the door.  

He doesn’t stop running for a long time.

The police find him, hours later, huddled with his brother in the void beneath a flight of stairs.  The blood in his hair is hard and dry, and his feet and knees are raw and scabbed.  His brother is fussing and filthy.  

He is hungry.  One of the officers, a friendly Sullustan, offers him a piece of sweet cake on the way to the hospital.  Their father is already waiting when they arrive, and hovers like a deathly shadow in the corner of the room while the medics clean and treat Dean’s wounds.  

“Where’s Momma?” Dean asks.  

His father turns away and walks out of the room.  

# # #

Two weeks later, they leave Sullust for good, piling into his father’s small freighter with little more than the clothes on their backs.

His father is quiet, now.  Different.  He rarely looks at either of the brothers for long, and spends long hours in the cockpit or in the captain’s quarters.  When he does look at them, there’s something frightening in his eyes.

At night, Dean squeezes his stuffed tauntaun to his chest.  It is never warm enough on the ship, even under his thick blanket.

It doesn’t take long for Dean to learn to change and clean Sam’s wraps, and to reconstitute the right nutrition powders for him to eat.  He subsists on the nutrition cubes and K-18 rations stowed in the galley.  It doesn’t take him long to learn the most fundamental change of all:

His mother is never coming back.

 

  
**[Republic City](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Republic_City), [Hosnian Prime](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Hosnian_Prime), Hosnian System, Core Worlds**

**Present Day**

 

The first thought that floats through Sam Winchester’s mind when he hears footsteps in the middle of the night is that Jess must have gotten up for a glass of water.  

The second thought that goes through his mind is that Jess is still pressed up against his back, breathing softly, completely asleep.

He taps her shoulder, shushing her mumbles as he wakes her.

“Stay here,” he whispers.  “Stay quiet.”  

She starts to protest, but he shakes his head, reaching behind the bedside table for the stun baton he’s hidden there.  He’s barely touched it in years, but the rubberized grip is still familiar.  He rests his thumb on the power button but holds off on activating it, preferring to move in silence.

He slips down the corridor, straining to hear movement before turning the corner into the main room.  

The intruder is peering at Jess’ unfinished canvas on its easel when Sam rushes him.  He powers up the baton mid-arc, intending to take a clear shot at the back of the man’s legs to disable him.

Instead, the man jerks to attention at the baton’s hum.  He moves fast, side-steps, and sends Sam scrambling with a quick kick to the back of his right leg.  

Sam manages to keep enough of his footing to turn and hold up the baton between them.  It’s the wrong move -- the man steps in, grabs Sam’s wrist and twists -- and he loses his grip on the baton as well as his balance.  He lands on his ass, all advantage lost.

“You’re getting rusty, Sammy,” the man says as he deactivates the baton and tosses it toward the couch, where it lands with a soft thump.  He extends a hand.  “And is that any way to greet your big brother?”

Sam blinks.  “Dean?”

“Yeah.  Now come on, get up.”

He takes his brother’s hand, a little reluctantly, and lets Dean help him up to his feet.  “You could have gotten in touch first instead of breaking in.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Dean says, as he tucks his hands into his jacket pockets.  “And anyway, the last time Dad tried to get in touch, you said --”

“Where is Dad, anyway?” Sam interrupts, old anger seeping up.  “Is he going to jump out of a cabinet and lecture me on self-defense too?”

“Dad’s --”  Dean stops, mid-sentence, eyes fixed on something.  Sam follows his gaze to see Jess, still bleary-eyed, standing in the doorway.  “Hey there.  Sammy didn’t tell me he had company.”

“That’s because she lives here.  With me.”  Sam sighs.  “Jess, this is my brother, Dean.  Dean, this is my girlfriend, Jess.”

“Girlfriend?”  Dean raises his eyebrows, and gives Jess an appraising look.  “Huh.”

“Anyway,” Sam says, stepping in closer to Jess, in no small part to avoid a second midnight scuffle, “ignoring the hows, why exactly are you here?”

“I was hoping we could discuss that in private.”

Sam’s jaw clenches.  “Anything you have to say to me you can say in front of Jess.”

Dean frowns.  Considers.  “Okay, then.  Dad’s on a hunting trip and he hasn’t been home in a few days.”

“He’s probably passed out in a shack on [Dantooine](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Dantooine) with a few bottles of [Renan Irongut](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Renan_Irongut).”

“No, Sam.  Dad’s on a  _ hunting trip _ , and he  _ hasn’t been home in a few days _ .”

The wave of realization rolls over him in a slow, cold creep.  He swallows, and finds that his throat is tight.  It’s a feeling he was sure he’d left behind him years ago.  It is not a welcome one.  

“Jess, can you excuse us for a moment?”  

She nods and turns to leave the room.  Dean’s gaze follows until Sam elbows him.  

“What?” Dean grins, shameless.  

“Just...out here,” Sam says, and leads his brother out onto the balcony.

The night is cool and breezy, though the lights of Republic City do a great deal to fend off the darkness.  Sam rests his elbows on the edge of the railing and watches the lights of skimmers zip about, cutting among the buildings in a complex dance.  

“So why are you here?”

“I told you.  Dad’s missing.”

“Yeah, but why are you  _ here _ ?  Why are you coming to  _ me  _ about it?  Aren’t there plenty of other pirates and bounty hunters out there you could drag into this?”

“Because you’re my brother?  Because he’s your father?”

Sam huffs a humorless laugh.  “I seem to recall him telling me that if I was going off to be a lackey to the New Republic I was no son of his.”

“So prove him wrong.”

“Dean--”  He turns around to see that Dean has barely moved since stepping out onto the balcony, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the ground.  Sam narrows his eyes.  “What are you not not telling me?”

“Huh?”  Dean startles, looks up.

“There’s something about all this you’re not telling me.  Why you need  _ me _ instead of suckering somebody else into this.”

“Sammy--”  

“Sammy’s a chubby twelve-year old kid.”

“Okay, fine,” Dean snaps.  “I need somebody who can [slice](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Slicer/Legends) into a library on [Coruscant](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Coruscant).”

Sam closes his eyes and wills himself to stay calm.  “On  _ Coruscant _ .”

“A fairly significant private library owned by a Republic senator.”

Sam opens his eyes.  “I’m starting to understand why you’re here, now.  There is literally nobody in the galaxy stupid enough to help you, so you decide to show up here and sell me some line of [bantha](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Bantha) shit about Dad --”

“Sam.”

“-- just so you can use me to make some credits by stealing something from the people I’m trying to work for.  Presumably  _ because  _ I’m trying to work for them.”

“ _ Sam _ .”

“No, damn it.  I’m not done.”

“Neither am I!”  Dean storms forward to grasp Sam by his shirt collar.  “Someone took Dad.  It wasn’t some deal gone wrong or bad luck.  He was targeted.  He knew it was happening, and he tried to leave me clues.  He sent me his [datapad](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Datapad/Legends).  And yeah, okay, your whole respectable citizen of the Republic thing?  That’s not why I’m here, Sam.  I am trying to keep you  _ safe _ .”

“Safe?  From who?”

“Whoever took Dad.  We both used to run with him.  If it’s someone’s trying to settle a score, do you think we’re safe?  How about your girlfriend in there?”  Dean lets go and backs away.  “Look, I know it sounds crazy, but come on.  You do me this one favor, and then I’ll bring you back, and you can play house on this dirtball until you’re old and grey.  Fair?”

Sam runs a hand through his hair and lets his gaze wander back out over the balcony.  “How long do you think this’ll take?” 

“The library job?  Couple of days, tops.”

“Round trip?”

“Round trip.  Why, you gonna get homesick?”

“Not exactly.  I’m...I have an interview.  Law school.”

Dean looks at him askance.  “Law school?”

“I graduate in a month.  I want to continue my studies.”  He frowns.  “What’s so funny?”

“I come here, break into your house, tell you that Dad’s missing and we’re both probably being hunted, and you’re worried about school.  That’s…”  Dean shakes his head, failing to stifle a grin.  “Anyway.  Are you coming or not?”

* * *

The  _ Impala _ isn’t the most impressive ship in the galaxy -- she was already a decade or so old when their father bought her from a [Rodian](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Rodian) scavenger -- but what she lacks in cachet she makes up for in both versatility and individuality.

All ships have a smell.  All ships hum.  No two ships do either of those in exactly the same way, even new.  And the  _ Impala _ ...well, she’s been modded and kitted out so many times over the years that there’s no mistaking her for any other vessel.  

Sam doesn’t remember their home on Sullust, but he remembers the  _ Impala _ .  He lingers at the threshold where the boarding ramp meets the lower deck and brushes his fingers over one of the panels.  It’s not nostalgia.  Living planet-side for the last four years has been the best thing he’s ever done for himself.  But here he is.

Home again.

“You going to actually get on the ship, or do you want me to fasten you to the hull?” Dean teases, elbowing him as he passes.  A pair of automated cargo haulers follow, both piled high with crates.  

“We’re taking on cargo?”  

“Fuel ain’t cheap,” Dean replies with a shrug, directing the haulers toward the cargo hold.  “Hell, ordinarily I’d take on passengers between here and Coruscant, but I didn’t figure it’d be a good idea to do that without a real co-pilot.”

“What happened to your co-pilot?”  

“Left her at her mom’s cantina,” Dean calls out over his shoulder as he moves toward the hold.  “She was pissed as hell, but it didn’t seem right to drag her into all this.”

Sam balks.  He hurries after Dean.  “So wait, you’re flying the  _ Impala _ by yourself?”

“What?  I’m twenty-six, dude.”

“She’s a [YT-2400!](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/YT-2400_light_freighter/Legends)”  

“And I can do a [Kessel Run](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Kessel_Run) in sixteen parsecs.  I’m practically [Han Solo](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Han_Solo).”

“Because nothing bad ever happened to Han Solo,” Sam mutters.  “I’m gonna go drop my bag.  Anywhere I shouldn’t bunk?”

“Second Mate’s cabin.  I told Jo I’d keep it nice for her.”  Dean shoos one of the cargo haulers back and begins securing the crates with tie-down straps.  

“Jo?”  Sam frowns at the unfamiliar name.

“That co-pilot I left behind.  I told her I’d hire her back on once this is all over.”

Sam snorts.  “Sounds like I’m not the only one playing house.”

“It’s not like that,” Dean says as he cinches the straps into place.  “Mostly because I think her mother would kill me.  Anyway, we should be cleared for take-off within the hour.  Go get settled.”

“Settled, hell.  I’m dropping my bag off and then making sure you didn’t change all the flight controls since the last time I was on this ship.”

“Not all of them.”  Dean smirks.  “Half of ‘em, maybe.”

“I could kill you.”

“Get in line, little brother.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we meet Castiel and his family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Er. Apparently yesterday was Friday. Sorry about that.
> 
> Thanks as always to treefrogie84 for being an excellent beta reader and Star Wars consultant.

**[Maz Kanata](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Maz_Kanata)’s Castle, [Takodana](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Takodana), Western Reaches, Mid-Rim** **  
** **24 Years Ago**

The boy is crouched tight between the wall and a heavy wooden chest, small, filthy and terrified.  

He has blue eyes -- brilliantly blue, Maz notes -- that flash a little in the low light.  He is plainly young.  Small for his age too, perhaps.  Not much smaller than her, she thinks wryly.    

“Are you lost?” she asks.  “No, I think not.  A lost child would be pleased to be found.”

He doesn’t budge.  He barely blinks.  

Maz sighs and lowers herself to sit on the floor.  Her joints creak a little as she does.  She’s not as limber as she once was.

“There, now.  Old Maz isn’t here to hurt you.  Just to talk.”

The boy narrows his eyes.  He shifts a little, gauging his chances if he were to try and bolt past her.  She can feel the corner of her mouth quirk at that.  She may be small, and certainly old, but if she wanted to hold him here, she’d have no trouble.  

Instead, she reaches into her pocket.  

“Are you hungry?  Do you like bofa fruit?”

He doesn’t respond, but his eyes fix on the treat.  The boy swallows as she holds it out toward him from her spot in the middle of the floor.  He makes a tiny, distressed noise in his throat.

“Here.  Let’s share it,” Maz says, nimbly opening the packet with her long fingers.  She tears the candied fruit into two pieces, one of which she keeps.  The other she tosses with its packet, underhand, to the boy.

He catches it and has it in his mouth, wrapping and all, almost immediately.  

“There you are!”  Maz smiles as she chews her half.  “It’s good, isn’t it?”  

The boy sucks at the empty packet.  His eyes are appraising now.  Still nervous, still distrustful, but curious too, trying to make out whether she might have more with her to eat.

“Can you speak?”

When he nods, she spots the marks on his neck where a collar must have been.  Well.  That explains the fear.

“Do you have a name?”

The boy frowns, like he’s unsure.  Finally, after a moment, he settles on shaking his head.

“Well, that’s alright.  We can find you one.  I have a lot of things here.  Surely one of them is a name you’ll like,” she smiles at him again.  “Would you like more food?”

His nod is almost immediate.  

“Will you follow me?  Or should I bring it here to you?”

He glances down, then back over to her.  He is still skittish, but hunger is a powerful motivator.  “I’ll come with you,” he tells her, voice barely more than a whisper

Maz Kanata rocks to the side and slides a leg under herself to stand.  She draws herself up, maybe a little slower than she needs, and motions for him to follow.

 

# # #

 

The boy is near-feral, shy, and jumpy.  He acts as if he has never seen a sonic refresher, and if he’s seen fresh food before, it’s been a very long time.  It takes Maz herself telling him to actually use the furniture before he’ll do it of his own accord; otherwise he stays on the floor.  

His skin is pale from being kept on-ship, but she can tell that he’d tan easily given some time in the sun.  His neck and ankles are marked and scarred from collars and shackles.  There is a small brand on his shoulder.

She gives him full run of her rooms, the cellar, the roof.  Anywhere but places he might be seen by patrons.  Within days, she is delighted to see him begin to explore on his own, curiosity finally overruling fear.  

Each morning, they share breakfast, and he peppers her with questions about the things he has found the day before.  He does not speak of his servitude, or of anything that might have preceded it.

He sees more than he should, and not just because of his odd eyes.  He has a quick mind.  He learns easily.  Sometimes his observations seem to border on prediction, though it’s hard to say if that’s insight or something more.  She wonders about that.  Watches.

His injuries heal.  He fills in a little.  

When a cadre of [Zygerrian](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Zygerrian) slavers eventually come looking for their missing pet, Maz takes great pleasure in feigning ignorance and sending them away empty-handed.

Maz begins teaching him to read.

“Have you thought about your name?” she asks him occasionally.  

Each time, the boy shrugs.  

“You’ll need one eventually,” she chides gently, but lets the matter go.  

And then, one morning during breakfast, he says it.  “Castiel.”  His voice is clear and calm, and he stands straight when he says it.

It takes Maz a moment.  “Castiel?” she replies, looking up from her datapad.  

“My name,” he says.  “My name is Castiel.”

“Castiel,” she says, peering at him through the lenses of her goggles.  She ticks their lenses around thoughtfully.  “Yes.  That is a good name.  Castiel.”

He beams at her, proud.  She gestures for him to join her, and he hops up next to her on the soft cushions of her couch.  

“Now, Castiel, tell me,” she says as she tousles his hair.  “What do you know of the Force?”

 

# # #

 

“Where’d you get the [Keshian](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Keshian) boy?”

Maz turns, gives the [Falleen](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Falleen) trader an imperious look.  “What Keshian boy?”

“Ah, come on, Kanata.  I’ve seen him creeping around the last two times my crew and I came through.  Thinks I can’t see him in the rafters,” he says.  He wipes a bit of grease away from his bottom lip with his thumb and then sucks it clean.  “Good climber like that’ll fetch a good price, especially with a bit of training.”

“He’s not for sale,” Maz snaps.  Inside, she curses.  

“So hire him out.”

“Out of the question.”

The Falleen shakes his head.  “That’s too bad.  He’d be a good addition.  Good night vision on them, good spotters.”

“Goggles are cheaper.”

“Goggles can’t fire a blaster.”

“Droids then,” she says.

The trader shrugs and returns his attention to his food.  She is ready to consider the matter dealt with and forget the Falleen’s questions until he cocks his head and says -- a little too loud -- “Hey, didn’t I hear about some Zygerrians losing a Keshian slave out this way?  Broke out of his shock collar and everything.  Good bounty on him, last I checked.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Maz says. “Now are you still drinking, or should I have someone tabulate your bill?”

 

# # #

 

Chuck Shurley is the plainest [Hapan](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Hapan) that Maz Kanata has ever met.  

In ordinary terms, that amounts to him passing as an attractive human man, with eyes just as blue as Castiel’s and a good physique, but he lacks the ethereal beauty his people are known for.  He’s...unkempt.  

It would be as good a reason as any for him to abandon his homeworld in favor of Republic space.  So far, he’s thrived there.  The Core has always been far more egalitarian in comparison to the Queen Mothers’ rule.  

He is not without his faults.  Chuck is scattered and nervous under pressure on his best days.  It’s his sons who manage the family business on [Corellia](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Corellia) these days while Chuck enjoys a quiet retirement on [Talus](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Talus).

But Chuck Shurley is kind. The man has a certain hopeful courage of the heart that Maz sees all too rarely.  She remembers the first time Chuck entered her castle with a stern-looking, dark-skinned boy named Uriel, who he’d adopted almost entirely by accident during a trip to [Tatooine](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Tatooine).  

(Uriel has since grown into a shrewd business partner for Michael.  Much needed, too, given that one of Chuck’s boys vanished in the Civil War.)

Others followed: Anastiel (who’d gone on to work for a mining company in the Mid-Rim), Raphael (a civil servant, if she remembers correctly), and now Gabriel (whose capacity for trouble seems to be rivaled only by his fondness for sweets). 

If anyone can be trusted with Castiel, it is Chuck Shurley.

“You should know, I believe the boy may have some talent with the Force.”

“The Force?”  Chuck balks.  “Maz, if that’s the case, why not send him to Skywalker?”

“Are you joking?  The last Skywalker cut down an entire generation of Jedi and helped impose a fascist galactic state!  No, if that boy has real talent, let him learn on his own.  We’ll find him books. [Holocrons](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Holocron).”  

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re attached to him.”

She huffs.  “I am.”  

“Well, then I’ll do my best.  Gabriel can be a handful, but maybe a younger brother will be a good outlet for him.”  

 

# # #

 

“You’re selling me?” Castiel whispers, trembling.  The panic in his eyes reminds her of their first meeting, down in her cellar.  He drops to the floor and buries his face in her jumper.  “Please don’t sell me!  I’ll be good!  I’ll hide!  Anything!  Just don’t sell me!”

“Castiel, I’m not selling you!  You’re not…” she tries to dislodge him from her person.  She manages, with some effort, to at least raise his chin so that he’s looking at her.  “You’re not property!  I’d think, after all this time, that you’d understand that.”

“But you’re sending me away on a ship.”

“With a good friend.  A safe friend.  Chuck Shurley has a boy close to your age.  They’ll take you to the Core, Republic space, where you’ll be safe.  He can give you a family.”

“But I don’t need a family!  I have you!”

“Castiel, listen to me,” she says, crouching down so that they are eye to eye.  “You are too precious for me to be selfish.  There is too much potential in you.  I wish there were another way, but I won’t see you dragged away by some bounty hunter.  Do you understand?”

He sniffles, nods.  

She wraps her arms around Castiel, her most unexpected treasure.

 

# # #

 

She still hears from Castiel, of course.  He sends her messages from his new home on Talus.  In the holograms she can tell that he is growing tall and strong.  He grows to love his new father and his brothers, and particularly Gabriel, despite his tendency to get Castiel into various bizarre scrapes.

(Gabriel manages, on one occasion, to get his hands on a _cauterizer_ of all things, with the intention of helping Castiel alter the brand on his shoulder.  It’s confiscated, fortunately, before Gabriel can do any harm.  Castiel is sent to a surgeon instead.)  

When a few years have passed and the bounty for a missing slave lapsed, he visits.  His brothers -- first Uriel and Michael, then later Gabriel too -- drop him by when their routes pass her castle.  The trips are irregular and often short, but they’re welcome.  

“You could fly your own ship, you know,” she says one night as he is preparing to leave.  She catches sight of Uriel as he watches them from the boarding ramp, his expression a mask of vague disapproval.

“No,” Castiel says and shakes his head.  “I really couldn’t.”

She sees it, then: the fear in his eyes even when he boards his brothers’ ships.  Some scars cannot be removed.

# # #

The ping of a Holonet message arriving chimes while she is balancing her books.  Maz pays it no mind.  There will be time enough to attend to it later.  

Except…

Something is wrong.  There is a heaviness in her heart she can’t explain.  

“You’re becoming superstitious in your old age,” Maz mutters to herself and straightens up in her chair, glaring at the notifier on her desk.  The space is lightly cluttered: a stylus and flimsy notebook, her datapad, odds and ends, her half-empty cup of [shig](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Shig).  She keys in her passcode.

A point of blue light rises, spreads, and finally resolves into an image of Gabriel’s face.

“Maz, it’s Gabriel.  Listen, something’s wrong.  Cas is gone.  He had some kind of fit and took the _Archangel_.  I didn’t think he could even fly the thing, but...look, if you see him, tell him to call home, okay?”  Gabriel swallows, his brow knitted like he’s deciding whether there are other words to say.  “Just help us get him home.  Dad’s worried about him.”

The message ends.  

Her next days are a mix of worry and horror.  The news of the massacre of Skywalker’s apprentices travels fast, and with it all manner of speculation.  Have the Sith returned?  Is Skywalker among them?  Was this a play on the part of the Republic?  Some Imperial vestige?

(She won’t know the name [Kylo Ren](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Kylo_Ren) for a while yet, but it’s clear at the time that this is bad business.)

She worries for Castiel.  She doesn’t like the timing.

At dusk on the third day, a familiar freighter lands near her castle.  A man -- tall and broad, with wild blue eyes -- strides into her cantina.  He is exhausted.  He stinks of fear sweat.  He is her precious boy, and yet...

Maz Kanata clicks her goggles, and she knows.  She can see the Force blazing within him, bright as anything.  

“Come, Castiel,” she says, and gestures for him to follow.  “I have things for you.”

  
  


**A small estate near[Dearic](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Dearic), Talus, Corellian System, Core Worlds** **  
** **Present Day**

Castiel sits quietly on a low bench in his family’s garden.  One of the moons hangs high in the sky, its face brightened by the light of the sun.  The planet Tralus, his world’s twin, is visible on the edge of the horizon.  The wind is soft and smells faintly of the sea.  His cup of tea sits beside the bench, half-forgotten and cooling.  

He’s missed Talus.   

“Is that you, little brother?”  

“Gabriel?”  He pivots on his seat and smiles.  “How long have you been home?”

“Long enough to find the back door open and your ratty old bag next to it,” Gabriel says as he trots down the path.  “I didn’t interrupt any kind of special mumbo-jumbo out here, did I?”

Castiel chuckles and shakes his head.  “Just enjoying the view.”  He shifts over on the bench to make room for Gabriel.  “How’s business?”

“Lucrative.”  Gabriel pulls two brightly wrapped candies from his pocket and hands one to Castiel.  “How’s the Force?”

“Immanent.”

“Well.  That’s a comfort.”

“I like to think so.”  

“You seen Dad around?”

Castiel shakes his head.  “I think he must be in Dearic, or on Corellia with Michael.  I’ve had the place to myself for the past couple of days.  It’s been peaceful.”

“Here’s hoping it lasts,” Gabriel says.  “I’m hearing noise out there.  Maybe more than usual.  Something’s got the First Order on alert; made a couple of jumps tricky.  Those guys have no sense of humor when it comes to other people’s guns.”

“You’re running for the Resistance?”

Gabriel shrugs.  “A little, here and there.  All under the table, of course.  If anybody asks, I’m still mainly into live animals and specialty undergarments.”

“In that case, I genuinely hope nobody asks.”  He unwraps the candy and pops it into his mouth.  It’s sweet, but not overwhelming, like a piece of juicy melon.  “How long are you home?”

“Maybe a week or two.  Michael and Uriel have some more legitimate opportunities lined up, and it couldn’t hurt to take on legitimate freight while the heat dies down a little.  You?”

“I’m not sure.”  Castiel squints up at the horizon.  “Waiting for something, maybe.”

“Cryptic.”  Gabriel pats Castiel on the back and squeezes his shoulder as he stands.  “Anyway, I’ll leave you to it.  Stuff to unload, arrangements to make.  You know how it is.”

“Not by choice,” Castiel quips.  

Gabriel’s laugh is a fine complement to the rustle of flowers and trees, the distant surf, and the warm sun.  

Castiel waits until he’s alone before he picks up his cooling tea and sips it.  Gabriel’s news is disquieting.  It’s an unwelcome addition to the sense of unease that brought him home in the first place.  He’s also caught hints that all is not well out on the Rim, that the trouble is spreading, but the Republic has yet to move on it.

He closes his eyes and tries to see.

First comes stillness of mind.  Once achieved, that stillness proceeds to an unbinding of perceptions, a careful loosening of self to expand beyond his person: body and mind arise from an indescribable multitude of causes and conditions.  In turn, the existence of body and mind create new causes and conditions to answer them.  

Infusing it all is the Force, the living dance of cause and causation, moved and mover.  

Sometimes during meditation Castiel finds himself swept away by the Force, inundated by maelstroms of strange memories and emotions.  Other times he feels nothing but bliss.  Other times, perfect peace.  Other times, shame, fear, and rage.  

Tonight, his meditation feels like an uncomfortable joint, tense and eager to pop given the right motion.  He sits with that feeling, testing and searching for its boundaries, trying in vain to know its origins or at least to determine where to push to relieve it.   

Not for the first time, Castiel laments his lack of real training.  

By the time he opens his eyes, the sun has sunk below the horizon.  He takes in the subtle glow of the day’s final wavelengths dissipating in the upper atmosphere, and wonders briefly what that same sunset must look like to Gabriel.  Or his father.  

Castiel rises from his seat and returns to the warmth of the house.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Winchesters act on Dean's hunch with mixed success.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Astute readers might recognize a bit of repurposed [canon-adjacent media](http://www.amazon.com/Supernatural-Winchesters-Journal-Alex-Irvine-ebook/dp/B001NLKS16/) in the John Winchester's Datapad entry.

**John Winchester’s Datapad**

**15:10:6  (Twenty Years Ago)**

_Took Dean shooting.  If he’s big enough to try and comfort me, he’s big enough to start learning the tools of the trade.  I only let him fire the[X-30](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/X-30_%22Lancer%22_target_blast_pistol), but he is a deadeye marksman.  My [training lieutenant](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Training_Lieutenant) would have taken him over me in a second.  Times like this, I sure am proud of my boy.  I have a feeling it’ll be different with Sammy.  Maybe he’s just too young to show it, but I don’t think he’s got the same kind of killer instinct... _

 

 **The** **_Impala_ ** **, in Hyperspace en route to Coruscant from Hosnian Prime**

**Present Day**

The minimum living, breathing crew needed to fly a YT-2400 is, strictly speaking, zero.  

What you get for that is a freighter drone, technically capable of a lot of things, but not particularly good at anything.  Frankly, it’s not a great use of resources.

The ideal crew, according to the bean counters at the Corellian Engineering Corporation, needed to fly at YT-2400 is three: a captain/ pilot and two crew members. The pilot can handle most situations solo, but having a second set of hands at the helm makes more complicated maneuvers much safer. And it's always better to have a third person to handle the turrets.

Dean Winchester thinks that the conventional crew standards overstate things.  Dean _does_ give a shit about having the right number of hands -- some live cargo, for example, can rip a man’s arm off -- but Hosnian Prime to Coruscant on the main trading lanes is a trip he can do in his sleep.  

Or it would be, if his brother would stop shaking his shoulder.

“Dean,”  Sam says.  “Hey, Dean, wake _up_.”

“M’not asleep,” he mumbles.  

“Yeah, you are.”

“Not anymore I’m not.”  Dean stretches and squints at his instrumentation, taking in the time, the status of his bearings, and so on.  They’re about two hours into the jump, with all readings within acceptable parameters.  “You need something?”

“Aside from a pilot who pays attention to what he’s doing?” Sam scolds.  “The Holonet system’s code-locked.”

Dean cracks his neck, then rattles off a rapid string of letters and numbers.

“Whoa, hold up,” Sam says, fumbling with his datapad.  “At least let me write it do--”

The console interrupts him with a stream of bemused binary.

Dean laughs.  “Sorry.  I probably should have introduced you two before we took off.”  

“Introduce who?”  Sam blinks at Dean and then the console.  “Hold up. Since when do you understand _binary_?”

“What?  I can’t have a hobby?”  Dean grins.  He pats a panel toward the middle of the console, plain except for what appears to be a pair of lenses, one smaller than the other, jutting out of the flat metal.   “Sammy, this is B4-8Y.  I call her Baby.  Baby, this is my brother Sam.  He hasn’t been around for few years.”

This time, the console sounds curious.  And, possibly, a bit accusatory.

“Hey,” Dean says.  “Be nice.”

“Um,” Sam says.  “Does it...she…  Does Baby do [Aurebesh](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Aurebesh)?”

Dean shakes his head.  “I could patch her through to the main read-out, but the translation isn’t great.  Say hi to Sam, Baby.”

The console chirps brightly.    

“Uh.  Hi.”  

A longer stream of beeps and clicks.  

”She says your army men are where you left them,” Dean says, glancing over at his vectors.

“Oh.  Um.  Thanks?”

Dean grins again.  “I picked her up at a salvage depot out in the [Western Reaches](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Western_Reaches).  She was a busted [astromech](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Astromech_droid), totally inactive, but most of her internals were reparable.  Took me a couple of weeks, but once I got everything patched together and spliced into the nav system, she perked right up.”

Baby gives an appreciative whistle.  Dean winks at the console.

Sam blinks.  “Should I leave you two alone?”

“Don’t listen to him, Baby.  He doesn’t understand us,” Dean says and gives the console a final pat.  “Now if that’s all, I’m going back to my nap.”

# # #

Sam joins Dean in the cockpit for the descent onto Coruscant.  

It’s odd, being in the co-pilot seat again.  Not because of B4-8Y’s presence -- which Sam suspects might render him obsolete if he and Dean weren’t so practiced at flying together -- but because of how easily the motions come back to him.  

Coruscant hasn’t changed since the last time he was here: planetary defenses barely stepped down from their war footing from the last civil war (and probably the one before that). Switch repulsors for atmo while weaving between the dual layer planetary shields.  Adjust pressurization.  Illuminate lights.  Release landing gear.

He follows Dean into the spaceport to register their arrival.  They answer the usual questions -- What is the purpose of your visit?  How long will you be staying? -- and stays quiet as Dean processes the manifest through customs.  

Sam’s fidgets as the haulers clear the crates, on edge despite the tedium.  Visiting a planet with the express intention of violating the law has never been his idea of a good time.  

It gets worse about an hour later when Dean opens a hidden panel in the cargo hold.

“Tell me that’s not what I think it is.”

“Fine,” Dean says, tucking several sealed packets of [spice](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Spice) into a case, which he secrets into the pockets of his jacket.  “It’s not what you think it is.”

Sam huffs out a breath.  “Great.  Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”  Dean shuts up the panel, then brushes past him, eyes fixed on the corridor.  

Sam has to jog to catch up.  He can see the tension in his brother’s shoulders.  The sudden shift in mood between them is practically tactile.

“You’re pissed at me,” Sam says as they step off the boarding ramp onto the grubby permacrete.

Dean punches some buttons on his commlink and watches the _Impala_ ’s ramp close.  

“Okay, fine.  If it’s about the...you know,” Sam says, glancing over his shoulder, “I just think--”

“How about this thought?” Dean snaps, locking eyes with him.  “Not all of us get to be law students.”

Sam blinks, gobsmacked.

“You ran.  You don’t get to moralize to the guy who got left holding the bag.  Now let’s get this over with.”

Dean turns on his heel and starts walking.

Sam opens his mouth, then closes it again.  He wants to defend himself, tell Dean he could have run too, but the words feel futile on his tongue.  

He follows his brother through the spaceport proper and out into the city.

# # #

If he were looking for a way to describe Coruscant, Dean might call it the middle of everywhere.  

It’s a cheap joke, given that it’s at the center of every map he’s ever used, but it’s also true in the sense that what goes down on Coruscant tends to ripple out through the Core and out to wherever ships can reach.  

Basically, when Coruscant sneezes, [Tattooine](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Tatooine) catches a cold.  It happened with the last Civil War, and as far as he can tell, it’ll probably happen with the next one.  

At least the New Republic moves its capital around these days.

The [Manarai Hills](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Manarai_Hills) district glitters.  Unsurprising -- it’s a warren for the over-privileged -- but Dean can’t help but appreciate the view.  He zips through the district, keeping to the middle layers of traffic on boulevards and avenues.  Their rented speeder isn’t much to look at or to fly, but getting noticed isn’t in the plan.

“I’ll get us in via the service entrance.  Once we’re in the building, you slip over into the private quarters,” Dean says as he passes Sam a small, ornate golden cylinder.  “This key should get you into the library.”  

“Once you’re in there, pull everything you can.  Senator Talbot’s official notes should be in their own file, which you should grab, but what we’re really after is the unofficial stuff.”

“And you think this’ll help you find dad how?”

Dean nods towards John’s datapad on the console.  The case is battered and worn.  If it ever saw better days, those days were long ago.  “Because everything I’ve dug up so far points to Dad seeing Talbot in person more than once before he vanished.”

“Dad met with a Republic senator?”  Sam raises his eyebrows, surprised.  “Why?”

“Who knows?”  Dean signals, dips down a few levels.  “She’s rich.  She probably wanted him to shoot somebody.  Hell, she’s not the first senator he’s ever worked for.”

Dean veers onto an access lane and approaches the tall residential tower that houses Senator Talbot’s personal apartments.  The service skydock is half-hidden under a graceful arch, visible enough to be found but not so noticable as to break the aesthetic.  He approaches it with an ease he doesn’t feel.

He glances at his brother as he starts the descent; Sam’s eyes are on the cityscape.

He knows bringing Sam was stupid.  Selfish.  He can practically hear his old man tearing into him over it.  It’s not like he doesn’t know other people who can slice Talbot’s system.  But something about this whole thing feels wrong in his gut, and...Sam is someone he can trust.  He’s family.

Dean forces himself to focus.  He can feel guilty later.

He spoofs the skydock code with practiced ease and lands the speeder in an unobtrusive spot near the exit.  The attendant barely glances at them as he waves them in, disengaging the maglocks to allow them access to the interior of the residential tower.

Time to get this show on the road.

# # #

Watching Dean breeze through the tower is unsettling.  

The blithe criminality of it doesn’t bother Sam as much as the familiarity.  It’s an unwelcome reminder of the life he’s sworn off, but apparently can’t escape.  Dean might be doing the work of getting them into Senator Talbot’s apartments, but Sam knows every step, every trick, by heart.

 _I don’t have to go back_ , he tells himself.   _Just this one thing for Dean and I can go home._  

He clings to that thought as they leave the grubby service corridors for the tower’s living spaces -- plush, opulent, manicured -- and approach the entry to Senator Talbot’s apartments.  

Dean makes short work of the lock, then peers inside.  Satisfied, he ushers Sam in, sticking close as he shuts the doors behind him.  

“You good?”

“Yeah,” Sam says, ignoring the way adrenaline has his guts churning.  “The library?”

Dean nods and points to a door on their left.  “Should be there.  Be quick.  I’ll be out here if you need me.”

“Got it.”  He fishes the key and the data stick out of his pocket and goes to work.  

# # #

With Sam out of sight, Dean relaxes.  It’s paradoxical, but his brother is good at what he does.  They’re in, they’ll be out in a couple of minutes, and in the meantime, maybe he can take a look around, see how the other half lives.

In Senator Talbot’s case, the answer appears to be “expensively.”  The rugs alone might sell for almost as much as his ship.  If he thought he could get away with it, he’d take one.  

He moves through the open foyer toward the raised plinth and its circular seating area.  Dean spots a small wet-bar and smiles.  His boots are silent as he crosses the room to get a closer look.  If anything deserves investigating, it’s that.

“[Dornean brandy](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Dornean_brandy), huh?  Don’t mind if I do,” he murmurs.  He picks up a glass, pours himself a small portion, and raises it to his lips  

There’s a click, then the high-pitched hum of a blaster powering up.  Dean freezes.

“I’m surprised you went with the Dornean instead of the [Idlewil](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Idlewil_liquor), though I don’t suppose you’ve ever seen it before.”

He tilts his head up and turns it slightly.  He can just make out the woman behind him in the periphery of his vision.  She’s seated, hidden from the entry by her high-backed chair.  Like she’d been waiting for someone.

Dean swears under his breath.  

“You want to point it out to me?” Dean asks, careful to keep his hands in sight as he turns to face her.  “I’ve got adventurous tastes.”

“You’d have to, considering that you’ve invaded my sitting room.”

“Not much of an invasion from my perspective.  Looks more like a set-up.”  Dean tilts the glass slightly.  “You mind if I, uh…”

“By all means.”  Her accent is clipped and tidy, and just as rich as her apartments.  She’s younger than he expected, about his own age, maybe.  Pretty in a sharp kind of way, and either ballsy or desperate enough to be the one pointing the blaster at him instead of hiring someone to do it for her.  

She stands, keeping him cleanly in her sights as she moves to put the library in her line of sight.

Dean takes a sip of the brandy.  “Not bad.  Circumstances are a little off, but--”

She interrupts him.  “What exactly is your friend looking for in my library?”

“No idea.  I’m not much of a reader.”

“Too bad.  I’d have enjoyed a more intellectual discussion.”

“What can I say?  Having a blaster pointed at me makes me nervous.”  He considers the weight of the glass in his hand.  The layout of the room.  “Actually, it’s kind of a funny story.  I think you know my dad.”

“Your...dad.”  

“Yeah.  He apparently stopped by a few times.  John Winchester?”

The library door swishes open.  Talbot’s attention shifts.  Dean hurls the glass at her face.  It connects just above her brow, and she shouts in angry pain, instinctively bringing her hands to her face.

Sam, bless him, bolts.

Dean lunges forward and grabs Talbot by the wrist.  He twists, hoping to disarm her, but she pulls him in and headbutts him hard enough he sees stars.  She takes advantage and elbows him hard in the solar plexus.   

He doubles over, stunned.

The sharp crack of her blaster grip against his temple is the last thing Dean feels before he slumps to the floor.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Castiel's plans change and Dean's day goes from bad to worse.

**A small estate near Dearic, Talus, Corellian System, Core Worlds**

The smell of [bajjah](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Bajjah) wakes him, warm and comforting.  Even without the Force at his disposal, that would be enough to tell Castiel that his father is home again.

He shuffles out of his room in his pajamas -- loose pants and a soft shirt -- and beelines barefoot to the kitchen.  He fills an earthenware mug with the dark, fragrant liquid, and carries it out into the lounge where his father peers intently at his datapad.  

It’s funny, Castiel thinks, how little his father has changed in the two decades they’ve spent together.  Hapan lifespans are long; the two of them could be mistaken for brothers now.  It won’t be long before people start to confuse their relationship.  He’s already seen it happen with Uriel.

“You’re up early,” Castiel says as he sets his mug down on the table.

Chuck looks up, surprised, then springs to his feet and pulls Castiel into a tight hug.  Castiel is more than happy to return it.  

“Castiel!  How was your trip?”

“It was...difficult,” he admits as they break the hug.  “Mostly the journey.  Well, that and the destination.”

“Where did you go?”

“[Teth](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Teth).

“Teth?  Isn’t that in--”

“Wild space,” Castiel says as they take their seats on the long, curved couch.  “Hutt-controlled.”  

His father’s expression darkens, more belated worry than anger, but Castiel still feels a stab of guilt.  He picks up his mug and cradles it in his palms

“Well.  I’m glad you’re home,” his father says finally. “How long are you staying?”

“Not as long as I’d like, I’m sure.” He sips his bajjah.  “Truth be told, I’d prefer not to set foot on another ship for a long while after that last trip.”

“Was it worth it, though?”

Castiel takes a deep breath.  “The [B’omarr](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/B%27omarr_Order) monastery was still there.  I found some remnant artifacts, mostly things reclaimed and repurposed.  It was educational, but not especially productive.  Honestly, it was too much risk, too little reward.  Though I suppose it was a remedial lesson in why I probably ought to find a job in a library instead of chasing ghosts.”

“Did I hear somebody say library?” Gabriel calls out from the entryway.  “Was it Cas?”

“Yes?” Castiel answers, eyebrows raised.  

Gabriel walks in, already dressed for flight.  “Fantastic!  I need another pair of hands.”

# # #

Two hours later, Castiel finds himself strapped into the jumpseat of the _Troublemaker_ .  Across from him, taped to the wall, is an opaque [flimiplast](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Flimsiplast/Legends) poster of a distressed-looking [felinx](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Felinx) dangling from a branch.  

He can’t read the text, but Gabriel has assured him that it is supposed to be encouraging.  

He does not feel encouraged.

“You couldn’t have given me a couple more days?” he says, fidgeting at the belts.  “You just got home.”  

“It’s just a trip to [Balmorra](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Balmorra),” Gabriel says over the intercom.  “Rare books!  You love rare books.”

“Almost as much as I don’t love ships.  And flying.  Also, your droid hates me.”

Gabriel sighs loudly enough that Castiel can hear it over the comm.  “Nutcracker, do you hate Cas?”

“‘Hate’ is not a sentiment included in my flight programming,” the droid replies in clipped, melodic [Basic](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Galactic_Basic_Standard).  “Castiel is obviously projecting his own feelings.”

“See?”  Gabriel says brightly.  “No malice here.  Just rock-solid astrogation, courtesy of our friends at Industrial Automation.”

“Astrogation _and_ psychology,” Castiel grumbles under his breath.  

“Here we go!” Gabriel crows, and activates the first bank of repulsors.  The _Troublemaker_ shudders and lurches mostly straight up, as if it needs to wiggle its way out of gravity’s grip.

Castiel tries not to vomit.

Gabriel activates the second bank of repulsors when they hit flight altitude.  The _Troublemaker_ jets forward, cutting smoothly through the sky over their father’s estate.  There is mild turbulence as the sublight engines cut in at the atmosphere’s edge -- a sensation Castiel still finds disconcerting -- but once they clear Talus’ atmosphere, the _Troublemaker_ feels perfectly stable.  At least the run up and transition to hyperspace is smooth.

“And we’re in hyperspace.  Belts off.”  Gabriel announces over the speakers.  “Refreshments will be served in the galley whenever you feel like it since you know where the snacks are.”

Castiel undoes his buckles quickly and shrugs free of them.  He hears Gabriel approach as he stows them.

“You know you’re going to need those again in a few hours, right?”

“Yes.”  Castiel presses the clips to return the jump seat to its upright position.  It snaps into place easily.  “Do you mind if I, uh…”

Gabriel shrugs.  “You do you, little bro.”  

“Thanks.”  Castiel darts into the nearby passenger cabin.  

A track of pale lights illuminate along the ceiling edge as he enters, casting the room in a cool blue.  The bed is plain and tidily made, just as he’d left it the last time he’d traveled with Gabriel.  

He runs his hand along the blanket, taking in the familiar texture.  Bit by bit, he relaxes.  This is his room.  He is safe here.

He takes a seat in the middle of the bed and begins his meditation.

 

 **An Overpriced Hotel in the Manarai Hills District,** **Coruscant**

The desk clerk, a tall [Selonian](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Selonian) with sleek reddish fur, peers at him.  “Name?”

“[Maarek Stele](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Maarek_Stele),” Sam says, smiling.  “I should have a reservation?  Paid through the week?”

She blinks, looking him over.  It’s obvious that he’s not her usual clientele, despite his efforts to tidy himself on the way, but professional courtesy wins out with a tense twitch of her whiskers.  She taps at her datapad, glances up at him again, and then offers him a thin smile.  “Ah yes.  Mister Stele.  Here you are.  Did you require any upgrades to your suite?”

“Uh, no,” Sam says.  “The simple suite should be just fine.”

“Very good.”  She passes him a pearly square.  “Here is your key.  Holonet connectivity is complementary.  If you require any assistance, staff is available at all times.  Enjoy your stay.”

He thanks the clerk, takes his key, and then turns for the elevator.  He reaches into his pocket for the hundredth time, checking that the stick with Senator Talbot’s data is still there.  

Whatever is on there, it had better be worth it.

  
**A Coruscant Security Force Subpost, Manarai Hills District, Coruscant**

“Try again.  With your real name this time.”

Dean settles back into his chair.  “Like I said.  Antilles. [Wedge Antilles](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Wedge_Antilles).”

“And what were you doing in Senator Talbot’s apartments?”

“Having a drink.”

“And your accomplice?”

Dean shrugs.  “Not having a drink?”

The officer crosses her arms.  She is lean, human or near enough, with short-cropped hair, and olive skin.  She’s grilled him relentlessly for hours, but her patience is wearing thin while he’s still going strong.

He’s guessing _her_ father wasn’t in the Imperial Navy.

“Listen, _Wedge_ , you’re not doing yourself any favors.”

“I don’t know,” Dean says, and raises his cuffed wrists.  “I think these restraints really bring out my eyes.”

The officer glowers for a moment and then walks out.  

Dean’s smile vanishes with her.  The subpost is windowless, the interrogation rooms maglocked.  His cuffs are mechanical, but even if he had a pick, he’d still have to contend with the door, an unfamiliar floor plan, and at least a dozen officers.

Also, he’s out a few hundred credits on that spice.  And he has an unhappy customer.  Oh, and he’s probably not going to get his favorite jacket back any time soon.

At least they’re still referring to Sam as his accomplice instead of his brother.  That’s a good sign.  If Sam got away clean with the data, that’s a silver lining.  He’s not 100% confident his brother will follow up on what he finds, but...

The officer returns, flanked by two others: another human and an unusually burly [Rodian](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Rodian) carrying a pair of shackles and a length of a durasteel chain.  

“Look, I appreciate the interest, but I don’t swing that way.”

The officer smirks while the Rodian secures Dean’s ankles.  “Don’t worry.  I’m sure you’ll find something you like down in lock-up.”

“We’re having a sleepover?  Awesome.”

The officer yanks him up by the collar and shoves him out into the hallway.  “Laugh it up while you can, kid.”

 

  
**The Galley of The** **_Troublemaker,_ ** **En Route To Balmorra  
** ****

The nice thing about hyperspace is the downtime.  Case in point: this moment.  Boots on the table, holovids,[namana](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Namana) ice cream, a droid doing the real work--

“Gabriel, we need to change course.”

“Say what?”  Gabriel looks up.  And then, because what he’s seeing makes absolutely no sense, he blinks again.  “Is that my night camo?  Wait, is that a [vibroblade](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Vibroblade) _?_ ”  He drops his feet to the floor and sits up, stunned.  “Where did you...why are… Cas, what the hell?”

“I need to go to Coruscant.”

“To what, rob a bank?”  

“That might be simpler,” Castiel replies, either ignoring the jab or missing it entirely.

Gabriel sticks his spoon in his ice cream tub.

“This is a Force thing?  Can’t wait, vitally important, blah, blah, blah?”

“Yes.”

Gabriel frowns, considering.

He’s always looked after Cas.  When Cas had crawled into bed with him one night and whispered that he was afraid someone might steal him again, Gabriel found a guy on Smuggler’s Row willing to teach a couple of kids some [Echani forms](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Echani_\(martial_art\)).  Later on, he’d taught himself to pick locks so Cas could learn how to get out of shackles.  Hotwiring speeders?  Well, okay, that might have been questionable, but what else were they supposed to do in their free time?  Swim?  Climb trees?

And yeah, most little brothers don’t go crazy, run away, and then come back with weird powers that occasionally compel them to drop everything and go zooming across the galaxy, but hey.  Gabriel’s flexible.  

“Ah, hell.  I’m in,” Gabriel says, gleefully.  “I mean, Michael is going to have my ass for blowing off this library gig, but it’s not really my speed anyway.”

Castiel blinks.  “Won’t you have plenty of time to reroute to Balmorra after you drop me off?”

“Drop you off?  Are you kidding me?  My little brother walks in looking like a [Antarian ranger](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Antarian_Rangers) and I’m supposed to drop him off?  Forget that.”  Gabriel picks up his ice cream and stands.  “But seriously, little bro, put some normal clothes on.  I am _not_ explaining that outfit to customs.”

“I was hoping to avoid customs.”

Gabriel huffs out a laugh.  “On Coruscant?  Kiddo, I’m good but not _that_ good.”  
  


**Not a Coruscant Security Subpost, Coruscant**

Dean's been in some pretty entertaining jail cells.  He doesn't love being in custody, but he's accustomed to making the best of it.  He's made some interesting friends and a few good deals via the system.

So he's prepared for it, maybe even looking forward to it a little after the interrogation room.  What he doesn't expect is a trip to a freight elevator and a stunner to the ribs.  

He drops like a sack of rocks, and his handlers more or less treat him like one.  They slap a shock collar on him, blindfold him, and stun him again when he tries to wriggle free.  He goes limp after that, but they give him one more shock for good measure before they dump him into the back of a speeder van.

The route is circuitous.  Rough.  He's not in any sort of safety restraint, and spends the journey trying to keep a grip on something instead of going flying.  by the time they stop he's not only bruised but angry at not being able to track the journey.  He could be districts away, or just around the corner.

Dean's crouched and ready, blindfold hanging loose around his neck when the van doors open.  They stun him again before he can bolt -- once with the collar and again with the prod -- and he crumples.  

His handlers drag him through a warehouse to a room, shove him inside, and slam the door shut.

Dean rolls onto his back and groans, both at the ache in his muscles and his predicament.  The only thing worse than tangling with the legal system on a Core planet is getting shoved through the cracks into something nastier.

Getting a rough ride and being left in a dark room in some industrial district is...well, it’s not good.

“Okay,” he murmurs, and flexes his fingers.  “Okay.”

He feels his way around the room.  There’s nothing in here: no bucket in the corner, no blanket.  The space is larger than a standard cell, perhaps four meters by five.  An office, maybe, or a storage room.  He runs his fingers over the walls, searching for panel seams or vents.  His chains limit his range, of motion, but maybe he'll get lucky.    

He’s about halfway through when he hears the locks disengage and light floods the room, painful white-on-white.  He crouches into a defensive position, shading his eyes.

A sharp kick to his ribs helps bring things into focus.  He takes the second kick as an opportunity to grab for his assailant’s leg.  She shouts, but doesn’t fall.  Dean uses her stability against her, pulling himself up her short but sturdy frame before pushing past her for the door.  

He makes it about two steps before the shock collar drops him.

“Son of a bitch,” he groans.

“You’re good, Dean.”  She’s almost chirpy, but there’s no mistaking the malice in her voice, or the shape of the strap chair as she rolls it into the center of the room.  “I’m almost going to regret letting Alistair take you apart.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:  
> \- Of course Gabriel torments his brother with [this poster](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hang_in_there,_Baby). Duh.  
> \- Yeah, Sam is doing the 2x06 thing -- "Go to the first motel listed in the Yellow Pages. Look for Jim Rockford..." -- but Rockford Files in this case has been replaced with [The Voyages of the VSD Protector](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/The_Voyages_of_the_VSD_Protector), a ship on which Stele served.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is an interrogation, a rescue, a contact with an old friend, and a split lip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continual thanks to treefrogie84. I owe her so much wine, I cannot even describe.

**Lucifer’s Chambers, The** **_Cage_ ** **, location unknown** **  
** **Present Day**

Throne Sitri strides through the entrance to Lucifer’s chambers, heavy boots clanging on the metal grates that pass for a floor.  She is tall, dressed in the flat red and gray armor of her rank.  Her vivid blue skin is the only thing that gives her away as anything more than human.   

It’s just as well that she’s [Pantoran](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Pantoran).  This part of The Cage is cold, almost unbearable, even for her.  Her breath condenses immediately; she can practically feel frost forming on her lips as she approaches the plinth at the center of the dimly-lit atrium.  

“There is news, sir,” Sitri says, and drops to a knee before her master.

Lucifer barely stirs.  He is seated -- reclining really -- on a broad bench.  His pale robes stand out in the dim light, covering his body and hooding his face enough that she can’t fully make it out.  He toys with a crystal that hovers just centimeters above his palm.  It turns slowly, in time with the motion of his fingertips.  

“Speak.”

She clears her throat.  “We have John Winchester’s son on Coruscant.”

“His son?  Which one?”  Lucifer lifts his head a little, tilts it.

“The eldest.  He assaulted Senator Talbot.  He had an accomplice we’re still trying to identify.  Shall we relay to the Senator that her deal is fulfilled?”

“No.  The deal was for the father, not the son.”

“Of course, sir.”  Sitri remains still, waiting for direction or dismissal.  She ignores the creeping ache in her joints, the sting in her fingertips.  She fights to suppress the urge to shiver.  

“Has the bounty hunter been identified?”

“Yes, sir.  An independent contractor, currently in the employ of the [First Order](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/First_Order).  Dominion Belias is already in contact with him.”

“Good.  Bring the hunter here.”  Lucifer waves his free hand.  “Dismissed.”

Sitri stands, bows.  “It will be done.”

 

  
**A White Room**

Alistair is tall -- tall as Sam, at least -- and lean unto gauntness.  Even his short beard does little to offset the effect: there is something deathly about the man.  He’s casual as he prepares the inducer, testing settings and making adjustments.

“Meg, do the injections.”

Dean jerks in the restraints, trying to avoid the first syringe, but it’s hopeless.  She jabs the needles home, one after the other.  

“Have a nice trip,” she tells him with a wink before she leaves the room.  

The onset is quick.  Details skew in his peripheral vision, and the light is so bright it hums in his ears.  Even if he keeps a stable point of attention, his senses are already coming out from under him.  The straps holding him to the chair are too tight.  He wants out of them.  Wants out of his clothes.  Wants out of his  _ skin _ . Knowing it’s the drugs doesn’t help much.   

“Feeling comfortable?” Alistair asks as he inspects the straps.  

“Just peachy.”  Dean snaps, willing down the rise of panic in his guts.

“Good.  Let’s get started.”

Alistair reaches for the inducer and flips a switch.  

 

  
**A Suite In An Overpriced Hotel, Manarai Hills District,** **Coruscant**

Sam paces the room.  It’s been hours.

He goes over his exit again, wondering if he’d missed a signal from Dean.  He’d retrieved the datapad from their rented speeder and then gone to ground, first in a stolen custodial uniform in the tower itself, then later according to their old protocols: hole up in the first lodging in the Holonet listings under an alias and wait.

So he waits.  Has waited.  Keeps waiting.  He checks the listings again.  Makes some calls to see if Dean’s checked in nearby under any familiar names.  Nothing.

Finally, he takes a calculated risk: he slices into the Security Force’s computer system.

He can only gain surface access -- security is tight against outside attack and he doesn’t want to risk entering a substation -- but he should be able to see some trace of an arrest or at least a dispatch.

There’s nothing.

Sam tells himself that Coruscant is big and bureaucracy is slow.  He’s only got partial access, so maybe the data hasn’t propagated yet.  Or maybe it’s good news, a sign that Dean got out of there and just got held up.  Or drunk.  Or sidetracked.  Something.

He helps himself to the bottle of [lum](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Lum/Legends) in the mini bar and pours himself a modest measure.  He downs it faster than he should, then pours himself another.

He stares at the data stick on the table.  

Well, if he’s stuck here waiting, he might as well turn his attention to Senator Talbot.

Finding bios on the Holonet is simple enough.  Talbot’s rise to power is littered with lucky breaks, but nothing outrageous: a lucrative inheritance, a couple of rivals whose sudden disgrace and departure from the field left her at a clear advantage.  Her public face is almost unassailable.  Talbot isn’t well-liked, necessarily, but she has a good reputation.  In interviews, she seems precise, interested in novel compromises, witty...

Sam smiles.  If Jess were here, she’d probably rib him about Talbot being his type.

He digs into the datastick.

The first sign that something is amiss is she seems to have two or three of everything.  Her official schedule seems typical, but her actual itinerary -- including both the official and unofficial stops -- only partially corresponds to her appointment calendar, and even contradicts it in places.  

Looking at the dates, Sam could make an argument that some of those irregularities could match up with some of Talbot’s work: naming appointees, for example, or supporting another senator’s effort to bring bills to the floor.  But not all of them, not nearly enough for that to be a satisfying explanation.

He catches the logic of the other stops when he looks at her ledgers.

It’s corruption, and clumsy corruption at that, especially for a galactic senator.  This is a house of cards on the verge of collapse: deals stacked on deals until the whole thing is precarious.   

Senator Talbot owes someone somewhere, and she owes them enough to act against her own interests.  

Sam leans back in his chair and reaches for his father’s datapad.

It’s weird, holding it after all these years.  Or at all, if he’s honest.  Their father had rarely let it out of his sight, and when one of them had used it, it was nearly always Dean.  He runs a thumb along the old leather casing, hesitates, and then switches it on.  

Dean had said the pad had led him to Talbot.  It was time to find out why.

 

**A White Room**

Dean’s voice is already raw from screaming when Alistair crouches down to ask his first question.  

“Where’s the spear?”

“What spear?  I don’t…”  He swallows, tries to focus.  Alistair’s face is too close.  “I don’t know what that is.”

Alistair’s lips twist into a half smile.  “Of course you do.  You’re Mary Campbell’s son.  So let’s try again.  Where’s the spear?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Stubborn.  That’s a shame,” Alistair says, and steps away, returning his attention to the inducer’s controls.  He adjusts one knob and then two more.  “Have you ever wondered what it’s like to burn to death, Dean?”

“No,” he says, panic rising.  Dean twists, trying to slip free of the straps.  “No.  Please.  Don’t.”

Alistair shrugs, smiles, and flips the switch.  

 

 

**A Suite In An Overpriced Hotel, Manarai Hills District, Coruscant**

“Hey, Bobby.  This is, uh...this is Sam Winchester.  It’s been a while.”  

He gives the lens a tight smile.  He’s not sure if there’s bad blood here, what with the way he’d disappeared without so much as a goodbye, but if anyone can nail down who owns Talbot it’s Bobby.

“Anyway, I’m not sure if you’re still in the business, but I’m sending along some data Dean asked me to look at.  I’m not sure what it means, but I’m trying to pin down who some of the players are, and figured maybe you’d have some ideas.  So, uh yeah.  If you do, call us back…”  

 

 

**A White Room**

“Tell me about your mother.”

“Soft,” Dean murmurs, desperate to put his memories into language.  Forming the word aches.  His stomach turns.  He hates himself for giving anything of her away, but words tumble out of his mouth when Alistair asks now.  It’s involuntary.  “Good.  She...she sang to us.  Soup when I was sick.”

Alistair pets his hair.  Comforting.  Like his mother, but wrong.  The straps won’t let him pull away.  Should he pull away?  He’s not sure.   

“She must have loved you very much.  Spent a lot of time with you.  I’ll bet you followed her around, helped her with things all day, didn’t you?”

Dean blinks, not quite comprehending.

“I imagine it would break her heart to watch her little boy in all this terrible pain.  I’ll bet, if she were here, she’d give anything to make this stop, don’t you?”

He huffs out a soft sob.

“I think she would.”  Alistair steps away, turns to the inducer console.  “Keep that in mind while we overload your entire somatic sensory system.”

  
  


**A Disused Industrial Block On A Twilight Level,[The Works](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/The_Works), Dacho District, Coruscant**

Gabriel sucks at a candy stick as he walks alongside Castiel.  “So this is how it works?  You just wander around for a while until you find the thing you’re looking for?”

“Yes and no.”

“Vague, much?”

Castiel rolls his eyes.  “Yes in that I’m frequently unsure of the specifics at first.  No in that I’m generally able to focus without--”

“Incessant distractions.  Yeah, yeah.  I got it the first three times.”  

Castiel sighs.  Thus far his brother’s grasp of the concept has extended solely to making things more difficult.  He looks for landmarks or clues that might correspond to what he saw during his sudden vision aboard the  _ Troublemaker.   _

Still, the block feels familiar.  That’s a good sign.

He closes his eyes and breathes.  He tries to open his senses, feel the way the things around him connect to one another.  A sudden burst of sharp pain hits him and he staggers, momentarily overwhelmed.  

Gabriel steps forward to catch him, but he bats his brother’s hand away.  He sees a room.  Sees a warehouse.

“Get the speeder.”

“What?”

“I need you to bring the speeder here,” Castiel says.  “Get it and wait here.”

“Like hell.”

“ _ Gabriel. _ ”

“Okay!  Okay.   _ Fine. _  I’m getting the speeder.”  

Gabriel stomps back the way they came, muttering under his breath about idiot little brothers not being improved by space sorcery.  

The pain calls.  Castiel follows.

 

 

**A White Room**

Dean tries and fails to focus his eyes while Alistair cups his face and rips through his mind by force.  It’s better than the inducer.  It’s an agony that suggests the possibility of oblivion.   

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Alistair murmurs.  “I think Meg likes the way you look in that collar.”  

Some dim flicker of fear tries to ignite, but it’s extinguished before it can take hold, crushed under Alistair’s total dominance.

 

 

**A Dark Niche, Just Outside of a (Mostly) Abandoned Warehouse, The Works**

They’re an odd pair.  One -- the man -- is rangy, thin.  The woman is small, curvier.  One of them (or both of them, though he doesn’t like to consider the implications) radiates a kind of darkness he’s only encountered once.  It’s not an experience he’d like to repeat.

Castiel listens from the shadows.  He holds his breath and keeps his mind blank, hoping to avoid their notice.

“Well?”

“The boy’s useless.  We need the father.”  

“Shit,” the woman curses.  “Lucifer isn’t going to like that news.”

Castiel’s head snaps up.  Lucifer?  It’s a big galaxy, but the coincidence is discomfiting.  

The man scoffs and adjusts his heavy coat.  “So let one of the Thrones deliver it.  We don’t need to report directly.  Any thoughts on disposal?”

“I’m lining up a buyer.  He’s pretty enough, and it sounds like he had some fight in him.”

“He may still when he recovers.”

“Going soft on us?”

“Our instructions were to treat him as a potential asset.”

“Well, now that he isn’t, gloves off, hmm?”

“Be my guest,” he says and gestures to the door.

“Maybe later.  I’m starving.”  

They turn down the street, away from Castiel.  He watches them until they’re out of sight, then slips through the unlocked warehouse door.

The lights are low -- out completely for the most part -- but there’s a small workspace set up in an old office area.    

Castiel crosses to the office, pushes open a stockroom door.

The man in the chair doesn’t react to Castiel’s footsteps, but flinches when Castiel rests a hand on his shoulder.

“It’s alright,” Castiel says softly.  “I’m not here to harm you.”

Not that it’s likely he could do much damage.  The man’s visible wounds are minimal, but Castiel recognizes the tell-tale tremors of induced pain, and the man’s pupils are still blown from whatever drug cocktail they administered along with it.  

Castiel reaches out, gingerly, and touches the man’s face.  He means to reach out with his mind to reassure him, but what he finds there...

An ordinary person could not have done this.  Castiel thinks of the pair in the alley.  Seethes.  

With the exception of a maglocked collar, the man’s restraints come free easily.  The man’s eyes follow him as he works, but they’re dull and uncomprehending, probably tracking him reflexively.  

Under any other circumstances, those eyes would be beautiful.

Castiel hoists the man over his shoulders and into a battlefield carry.  He’s not sure yet how much aid he can offer, but getting him away from his tormentors is a good start.

 

# # # 

 

“Mother of Moons, Cas.  Tell me that's not a dead body.”

“Shut up and help me,” Castiel grumbles.  He may be strong, but carrying a semi-conscious man his own size is still work.  

“Yeah, yeah.”  

It’s not the most graceful effort, but after a few false starts they manage, arranging the man in the back of the speeder.

“Uh, Cas?”  

Castiel reaches for the first aid kit and begins picking through it.  “Yes?”

“Are you sure you’ve got the right guy?”

“What?”  He looks up at Gabriel, frowning.

“I’m just saying, do you know who this is?”

“A dead man or a slave if we don’t get him out of here.”

“And normally I’d be appalled, but--”

Castiel’s jaw tightens.  

“Look, I’m just saying that I know this guy.  He’s bad news.”

“You’re a career criminal, Gabriel.”

“Yeah, well, so is he.  Whatever they had in mind, he probably had it coming.”

His fist connects with his brother’s jaw almost instantly.  Gabriel stumbles back, spits blood.     

“What the hell, Cas?”Say it again.”

Gabriel boggles.  “What?”

“Tell me that man deserves to be a slave.” 

“I didn’t…”  Gabriel’s expression falls.  “Shit, Cas.  I didn’t mean--” he stammers.  

“We should go,” Castiel says, turning away.

They get into the speeder in silence, merging with the traffic patterns, leaving the warehouse district behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- If you're curious about what a Throne or a Dominion is, that's not nicked from Star Wars at all. It's a borrowing from the ranks of demons in Michaeli's _Marvelous History_ , which in turn uses common angelic hierarchies. 
> 
> \- Yes, Throne Sitri says "Coruscant" instead of "Imperial Center." Yes, there are reasons.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which certain matters are clarified over food, drink, and light blasters.

**A Safe House, Coruscant**

“Well?” 

“He’s resting.”

“Right.”  Gabriel pauses.  “Cas, look, I’m sorry.”

Castiel ignores him to pour a cup of tea.  

“I mean it.  I’m an ass.”

“Yes.  You are.”

Gabriel laces his fingers together and massages his palm with his thumb  “His name is Dean Winchester.”  

For the first time in an hour, Castiel looks at him.  It’s as good an opening as he’s going to get.  

“Couple of years ago, I’m in this high-stakes card game on [Bespin](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Bespin), right?  And this guy is just cleaning up.  Absolutely dominating the table.  He’s got a pretty [Twi’lek](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Twi%27lek) girl on his lap, he’s buying people drinks, totally unsubtle.  And I can’t prove it, but I know he’s scamming somehow.   Ordinarily, I’d take a guy like that out to the cleaners, but I want to know how he’s pulling it off.”

“Right.” Castiel leans against the dividing wall and cups his tea between his hands.

“Well, a couple of hands later, I spot a couple of [Ivax Syndicate](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Ivax_Syndicate) heavies hanging around.  So I pass him a note, offer to help him dodge them in exchange for a share of his take.  I won’t go into how it all went down, but suffice to say I’m unwelcome in certain parts of Cloud City these days.”  

Castiel rolls his eyes and drinks his tea.

“Anyway, we go our separate ways.  I hit the sack because I’ve got a gig the next day siphoning a black market shipment of [tibanna](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Tibanna).  Which, uh, turns out to be  _ his  _ black market shipment of tibanna.  Fisticuffs ensue -- and let me tell you, this guy does  _ not  _ pull his punches -- and I bolt with the cargo.  It’s not until I’m unloading it I realize who the guy actually is and what he does for a living.”

“You said.  He’s a bounty hunter.”

“Yeah, and not just any bounty hunter.  His dad’s been in the business for years.  Kid got raised as some kind of spacer mercenary.  A bartender on Cartao told me he took out six [Black Sun](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Black_Sun) enforcers in a turbolift with nothing but a pilex bit driver, so you can imagine I was more than a little aware of my mortality.  So I did the smart thing: I hit up some contacts and made it clear that if I’d known who he was I wouldn’t have screwed him over, and asked if maybe we could deal.”

“And?”

“And he gave me a price tag, I haggled him down a couple thousand credits, and we set up a meet on [Fornax Station](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Fornax_Station).”

Castiel nods.  

“So I get the credits together and make the meet.  He takes the cash and tells me, in no uncertain terms, that if I ever so much as sneeze in the same  _ system  _ as him, he’ll end me.  Which, you know, I’ll take it.  I call it a win and head back to my ship.  Except it’s not at the spacedock.  It’s in a heliosynchronous orbit on the dark side of the damn planet.  I was stuck on that station for a week.”

His brother blinks, then stifles a smile.

“It’s not funny, Cas.”  

Castiel turns away.  “No, of course not.”

Gabriel groans as his brother’s laughter echoes down the corridor.

 

# # #

 

Dean drifts.

Someone speaks to him, low and gentle, and presses a bottle to his lips.  He drinks eagerly, barely processing the chalky, sickly-sweetness of the thick fluid.  He gulps it down clumsily, almost chokes.

The words jumble in his ears when the man speaks, his face a blur, but something about him feels like safety.

He sleeps.

Consciousness comes slowly and painfully, like a six ton hangover.  He groans, tries to sit up, then thinks better of it.

“Sammy?”

“Guess again, Dean-o.”

Dean jolts upright, wooziness and the pounding in his skull be damned, and fixes his glare on the man in the doorway. “Gabriel.”  He reaches for his throat.  The cuffs and shackles are gone, but the collar is still around his neck.  “You son of a bitch.”

“Whoa!  Language!”  

“Gonna have more than language to worry about,” Dean snarls, lurching to his feet.  The room spins, and he stumbles, but Gabriel still backs away.  

He doesn’t grin so much as bare his teeth as he regains his footing.  

“Whoa, hey,” Gabriel says, and holds up a hand.  “Let’s not get carried away here.”

“What’s wrong?  Lose your remote?”  Dean lunges.  He catches Gabriel’s wrist and hauls him in close, then pivots to slam him into the wall.  “I figured you’d hold a grudge, but--”

The sharp dig of a small blaster pressed to his ribs silences him.  Gabriel winks.

“You won’t shoot.”

Gabriel raises his eyebrows.  “You sure about that?”

“You took me alive.  That means you want something.”  

A door opens in the adjoining room, startling them both.  It’s as good an opening as Dean is likely to get.  He moves fast, twisting his grip and wrenching Gabriel’s pistol arm behind his back.  It’s an effective move, giving Dean both a weapon and a human shield.  

Dean presses the blaster to Gabriel’s temple and marches him out into the main room.

The man in the entryway pulls up short.  The smell of warm food wafts from the shopping bag he carries.

Dean’s stomach rumbles.  

“It’s alright,” the man says, eyes fixed on Dean’s as he puts down the bag, raises his hands, and steps away from it.  “You’re not a prisoner.”

“Who are you?”

“My name is Castiel.  I’m the one who extracted you from your predicament.”  

“Predicament?”  Dean scoffs.  “Hell of a word for it.”

“Hell is probably more apt, yes.”

Dean scowls.   

Gabriel clears his throat.  “As much as I enjoy getting manhandled and having my own blaster pointed to my head--” Dean tenses and pushes the muzzle more tightly against Gabriel’s temple.  “--or hey, we can stay like this too.  This is good.  No biggie.”

Dean returns his attention to Castiel.  “What’s your angle?”

“What?”  

“Why’d you get me out of there?”

“You were hurt, helpless.”  Castiel narrows his eyes and cants his head to the side, puzzled.    “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because people don’t just show up out of nowhere to help people like me,” Dean snaps.  “Especially not after the kind of day I’ve had.”

“Two days,” Gabriel pipes up.

“What?”

“You’ve been out almost two days.  Cas here’s been feeding you bactade every few hours and trying to figure out how to flip the polarity on that lock.  I keep telling him it’s police issue, but--”

Two days?  Dean swears under his breath.  He lets go of Gabriel, but pockets the blaster.  “One of you give me a datapad.”

“Why?”

“Because my brother’s going to kill me.”

 

**A Suite In An Overpriced Hotel, Manarai Hills District** **  
** **Coruscant**

Sam has been staring at his itinerary for the better part of ten minutes, trying to justify it to himself.

No, trying to justify it to  _ Dean _ .  

His brother hasn’t answered his communicator, or any Holonet messages for nearly two days.  It’s not the first time Dean has vanished mid-job without a word, only to appear a day or two later with a hangover and a hickey or a souvenir.  

This job is different -- it’s their dad -- but maybe Dean isn’t.  Time is getting short, and Dean running off is increasingly the only explanation that makes sense.  

Anger is easier than worry.

Sam does the math for the hundredth time.  If he leaves now, he’ll be back on Hosnian Prime by morning, with a full day to prepare for his interview.  He’s sent Bobby all of the pertinent information.  If Dean’s still in the wind after the interview, maybe he can come back to Coruscant and...  

His datapad chimes, and he thumbs the answer key reflexively.  

“Sammy?”  

“Dean!”  He sits up, hurriedly closes the booking application, even though there’s no way his brother could see it.  “What the hell?  Are you okay?  Where are you?”

“Probably about six districts away from you.  It’s a long story.  You alright?”

“Fine,” he says, shock and relief overwhelming his frustration.  “Where were you?  I tried calling you, like, fifty times--”

“Well, this is me answering.  Go grab your stuff and meet me at the ship.”

“When?”

“Soon as you can.  I just need to finish up here.”  

“Finish up what?” Sam starts to ask, but the transmission cuts.  

“Jerk.”

Sam puts a hold on his booking and shoves his datapad into his already-packed duffel.  

  
  


**A Safe House, Coruscant**

When Dean returns Castiel’s datapad, he’s surprised to have a warm bowl of sweet-smelling noodles pushed into his hands in its place

“What’s this?”

“You haven’t had solid food in two days,” he says.  “Eat.”

Dean’s hands move faster than his brain.  He shoves a forkful of noodles into his mouth before he can think better of it. He studies Castiel as he eats.  He’s striking to look at, built like an athlete or a soldier, but without the usual swagger.  His expression is focused, serious.  His hair is just this side of shaggy, his jaw stubbled.  His eyes are a strange, sharp blue that catch the light.  It would be easy to get lost in eyes like that...

“So how’d you end up in that collar, Dean-o?”

He blinks, turns his attention back to his noodles.  “Apparently, the penalty for getting busted for a B&E on this rock changed since the last time I was here,” 

“Whoa.  The Secs did that to you?  Who’d you rob?”

“I didn’t rob anyone.  I was following a lead.  And official custody ended when they dropped me off.”

Gabriel steals a piece of meat from Castiel’s bowl.  “Gotta love corruption,”

“Well, I got caught in a senator’s apartments.  Kinda goes with the territory.”  

Castiel blinks.  “A senator?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, still focused on his food.  “Funny thing is, the Secs didn’t know who I was, but that bastard Alistair acted he’d been looking for me.  Or my dad.”

Dean curses and stands as the pieces come together.  

“I gotta go.”

Castiel puts down his fork.  “I’ll come with you.”

“Wait, what?”  Gabriel and Dean say in perfect unison.  

“You said it yourself.  The authorities didn’t identify you, but delivered you to someone with uncommon knowledge.  Who else knew who you were?”

“The senator, I guess.  I mean, I told her who I was.”

“Just one senator?”  Gabriel raises his eyebrows.  “Usually it takes more clout to disappear somebody like that on a Core planet.”

“That’s because she’s not the one who made it happen,” Castiel says, turning his attention back to Dean.  “Look, I’m not sure who or what you’re looking for, but I know Alistair’s kind.  He and his associate, they’re part of something more dangerous than you can know.  If your search brought you into contact with them, you’ll need me.  I want to help.”

“In exchange for what?”

“Your help stopping Alistair and his kind from getting there first.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which tragedy strikes, good whiskey goes to waste, and an old enemy resurfaces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> But seriously, treefrogie84 deserves All The Wine after the amount of editorial shenanigans this chapter required. She is fucking amazing.

Castiel travels light: just a military-style duffel slung across his chest.  

Dean’s not sure what to make of it.  He’s equally bemused when Gabriel grabs him by the arm and drags him aside.

“If he gets hurt, I swear--”

“You’ll what?  Hunt me down?”

“Yes.”

Dean rolls his eyes and shoves out of Gabriel’s grip.  “Whatever.”

It nags him, though, as they ride the shuttle back to the spaceport.  He finds himself watching Castiel out of the corner of his eye, wondering what kind of bond he could possibly have with a petty smuggler like Gabriel.  The two of them are close: they’ve got a hell of a history, or some kind of long-term partnership.  Given how thoroughly he and Jo screwed Gabriel over on Fornax Station, he’s stunned they aren’t a package deal.

Sam’s sitting on the _Impala_ ’s boarding ramp when they arrive, chatting with a pair of human (or near enough) tourists while he waits.  Dean ignores them on his way up the ramp.

“We’re taking on a fare?” Sam asks, turning in his seat when he notices Castiel.  

“Crew,” Dean says as he passes.  “Go start exterior preflight checks.  We leave in five.”

He leads Castiel up the ramp and points down the single corridor that runs past the cargo hold.  “You can bunk in one of the cabins past the machine shop.  The head’s on the other side of the galley.  You need anything, I’m usually in the cockpit or the captain’s quarters.”

Castiel nods, but his expression is strange.  Tense.  His eyes flash in the low light, iridescent like an animal’s in the dark.  Non-human, Dean thinks, though he’s not familiar with the species.

“Something not up to your standards?”

“No,” Castiel says, shoulders squared. “It’s fine.”

“Well, good.  Because as long as you’re flying with me, she’s it.”  

Dean turns and enters the cockpit.  He still aches all over, but something about being here never fails to make him feel better.  “Come on, Baby.  Let’s get out of here.”

Sam arrives a few moments later, exterior preflight complete.  “So what’s with the collar?”

“Secs nabbed me after you bolted.  Guess they figured I was dangerous.”

“And the new guy?”

“Helped me get out.  Now are we gonna fly this thing or hug?”

Sam snorts, starts flipping switches.

Dean grins back and hopes his brother hasn’t gotten any better at picking up on bantha shit these last few years.

The ascent, routine as it is, is nerve wracking.  He keeps waiting for some shoe to drop.  For enforcement to sweep in and take him back to that white room.  To take Sam.

None of it happens.  They clear atmo and shields as easy as anything and slip safely into the sweet freedom of hyperspace.  

“Go get some sleep or something,” he tells Sam as he gets up and heads for the machine shop.

Police issue collar or not, hinges are hinges, and Dean’s gotten damn good with a microcutter over the years.  He spends the better part of an hour working through the joints, then taking advantage of a loose spot in the locking mechanism to pull the collar apart.  

He chucks the broken metal into a bin, then rubs at his neck and shoulders.  He still hurts, and he’s stiff as hell from some of the positions he’s been holding while he works, but that’s nothing a bottle of [Tevraki whiskey](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Tevraki_whiskey) can’t fix.

Dean grabs a bottle from the galley, then settles into the cockpit to treat himself to a well-deserved drink.

 

# # #

 

There has been no weapon like it in recorded history.  The enormity of its capabilities, it’s power; it makes even the Death Star seem like a child’s toy.  Were its existence not an obscenity, it would be a marvel.

Phantom energy tears through the fabric of the galaxy, deeper than hyperspace, leaving impossible, brutal wakes as it blazes toward its ultimate goal.  

The people of the Hosnian System have bare seconds to prepare themselves.  What seems a single beam splits, each seeking its own target.  Hemispheres are bathed, briefly, in a terrible red glow before impact.  

Each planet is eerily still before the full effect of the beam is felt: first shockwaves of heat and tectonic activity, then violent pocket novae that consume each world whole.

On [D’Qar](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/D%27Qar), [General Organa](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Leia_Organa) stumbles.  It’s the second time in her life she’s felt such a terrible disturbance.  She vows it will be the last.  

On Takodana, Maz Kenata is outside the ruins of her castle, still rattled by[ the First Order’s attack ](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Battle_on_Takodana)when she feels the disturbance.  She prays quietly to her own forgotten gods that the young ones she’s set on their paths will have the strength to aid the [Resistance](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Resistance).

[Skywalker](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Luke_Skywalker), in his exile, curses his hubris.  Another failure laid at his feet.

Aboard the _Cage_ , Lucifer opens his eyes and smiles.

 

# # #

 

Cas is even less comfortable on the _Impala_ than he’d been on Gabriel’s ship, but at least this time he’s here for a purpose.  

He takes a small lacquer box out of his pack and opens it.

The Hapan blessing takes only a moment -- a dab of water from the sea near his father’s estate, the touch of a stone, a prayer to his father’s Mothers to watch over him and keep him safe as he travels -- but it helps to ease his nerves. He may be in the hands of a relative stranger, but this space feels more like his.  Should he sleep, he’ll do so in the arms of his family’s guardians.

For all other eventualities, he has the Force and his vibroblade.

He returns the box to his pack, then turns toward the door.  He wants to explore the ship.  He has a vague idea of its entries and exits -- most Corellian freighters are reasonably alike -- but he wavers, overwhelmed by a sudden sensation of mortal terror, then...emptiness.

Billions, gone in the blink of an eye.  The magnitude of it stuns him.  He tries to reach out, to make sense of it.

The realization that he’s on a ship barreling straight for the center of the conflagration sends him bolting down the corridor.

 

# # #

 

Dean doesn’t intend to get maudlin, but he ends up staring at the empty copilot’s seat instead of the luminous ripple of hyperspace through the viewport.  On the console, the display ticks down the time until they drop to sublight and he and Sam go their separate ways again.  

And then…

Well, back to [Tanaab](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Tanaab) to pick up Jo, probably.  She’s been a good working partner, a good friend, but he’d hoped Sam would -- no, he still wants Sam to stay.  He’s missed his brother.  He wonders if maybe this time he and Sam can keep in touch.  If maybe he can be a part of things.  Get to know Jess.  It’s a long-shot, but not impossible.  

He lifts the bottle to his lips, then sputters as Castiel darts past him and starts flipping switches, cursing under his breath.  

“What the hell?”  Dean reaches out, tries to pull Castiel back from the console, but only succeeds in being shoved away in turn.  

“You’re flying into a deathtrap.  We have to drop out of hyperspace _now_.”

“Our course is just fine.”  Dean says, indicating the readouts.  “See, the vectors ar--”

B4-8Y’s startled chirps silence him.   Dean’s eyes widen as a dozen telltales light up in warning. The _Impala_ shudders as Dean swipes his hand along a row of switches.  The hyperdrive cuts out, silencing a couple of the alarms, but new ones sound just as quickly. Proximity alerts screech as some sort of debris comes too close, bouncing them around as it impacts the shields.

“Holy shit.  Where did _that_ come from?” Dean says, staring at what looks like section of slagged [Star Destroyer](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Star_Destroyer) hull barreling toward them.  He drops the bottle and yanks up on the pilot’s yoke to bring them clear.  The ship settles into the shadow of the hull section; they use its bulk to shield them from the worst of the ravages of the new asteroid field.

Dean exhales, pats a grateful hand on the console.  “Good job, Baby.  Good job.”

He boosts the sensors, trying to figure out what’s happening out there. B4-8Y’s information indicates that Hosnian Prime should be directly in front of them, but instead there’s just an expanding ball of plasma.

“This is…” Dean shakes his head in utter disbelief.  “Nothing’s caused this level of devastation since the [Death Stars](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Death_Star).”

Castiel starts to respond, but he’s drowned out by a new series of alerts as another piece of debris crashes into them at high velocity.

The impact sends the ship toppling end over end.  The _Impala’s_ onship gravity compensates, but the motion still sends Dean and Castiel slamming up against the viewport before forcefully returning them to the deck.  Somewhere in the cockpit, the whiskey bottle shatters.

“What the fuck?” Dean snaps, trying desperately to regain control of his ship for the second time in as many minutes.

“Probably an aftereffect of whatever they used to turn the Hosnian System into a graveyard.”

“Yeah, you think?” he snaps, rerouting power to various systems.  “Reset the starboard stabilizers.  And check the shields!”

“Got it,” Castiel says, reaching for a bank of controls.   

“Dean?”  Sam calls out from the corridor.  “What happened?  Are we hit?  What’s going on?”

“Not a good time, Sam!”

The ship jolts as they careen into another mass of debris.  Dean doesn’t even need to see the display to know his aft shields are compromised.  He can feel the vibrations through the decking.

“Divert what you can to the front dorsal shields!  We’re going through this face first!”  

It’s not a singular effort: B4-8Y and Castiel have their (literal and metaphorical) hands full supporting the maneuver, maintaining the shields, and helping him avoid other debris.  By luck, skill, or physics, they clear the field and position themselves in a relatively empty patch of space.  

“I think I can jump us out of here and get us near [Loronar](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Loronar) and [Byblos](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Byblos),” Dean says, half to himself and half to Castiel, punching buttons down the console.  “Come on, Baby.  We can do this.  Stick with me.  Come on, come on, _come on_ …”  He sighs in relief as the stars elongate from pin pricks and they safely jump back into hyperspace.

“Dean?”

Dean blinks, catching sight of Sam behind him in the cockpit’s reflection.  Any relief he might feel, any elation at survival, dies the minute he sees his brother’s expression.  

“How’d you know?” He asks as he turns toward Castiel, who’s still standing at the copilot’s station.  

“What?”

“About the...whatever that was.”  Dean gestures at the viewport.  “First you get me out of the shit on Coruscant, and now this.  And okay, I’m grateful, but I need to know what I’m getting into.  Who are you with?  Who’s feeding you intel?”

“Nobody’s feeding me intel,” Castiel says.  “It’s not like that.”

“So what’s it like, Cas?  Because right now, I’m not sure whether to kiss you or shove you out an airlock.”

He licks his lips, glances Sam’s way, then back to Dean.  “I used the [Force](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Force).”

Dean boggles.  “You what?!”

“The Force.  I felt the system die and knew we were in danger.  It led me to you on Coruscant.”

“Like hell.”

Castiel rolls his eyes and reaches into his pocket to pull out a stylus.  He holds it in his fingers, then releases it to hover in that spot, unsupported.

“Yeah, well, some [Jedi](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Jedi) you are.” Dean says, plucking it out of the air and tossing it at the console.  “You just let a whole damn _system_ burn.”

“I’m not a--”

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam interrupts their stand-off, voice cracking.

“We’re not done,” Dean says, pointing to Castiel.  He takes his brother by the arm and leads him out of the cockpit.

 

# # #

 

Sam lets Dean lead him.  They don’t go far.  Just out of the cockpit and into Dean’s own quarters, where his brother sits him down on the edge of the bed and presses a flask into his hands.  

Sam drinks.   

“How bad is it?” he asks, finally.  He refuses to articulate the thought, but somewhere deep and wordless he knows.

“Not good.”

Sam nods, eyes unfocused.  

“Sammy, I’m --”

He puts up a hand.   _“Don’t.”_   

Dean sits down beside him, shoulder to shoulder.  

“If you hadn’t come to get me...”  He swallows.  There’s no gratitude in it.  Maybe he’s in shock.  He doesn’t feel anything at all.  Sam takes another deep slug from the flask.  The burn of the liquid is a sensation, comforting in its own right.

His mind scrambles at platitudes: that he’s lucky,  that everything happens for a reason, that some capricious god thinks his life is worth saving while erasing billions of others.

He shoves the flask back into Dean’s hands, reaches for the refuse bin, and heaves until his stomach is aching, empty.  

Dean places a hand on his back.  It’s warm, and no doubt meant to be reassuring.  

Sam swallows, mouth bitter, and looks up at the walls of the cabin that used to be his father’s.  Beneath his feet, he can feel the subtle hum of the ventilation system, the vibration of the engines.  

This is it.  This is all he has left.

“I sent Bobby the data I found on Talbot,” he says.  It feels grotesque, suggesting they work, but a hunt?  A mission?  It’s something he can actually _do_.  “I think maybe we should go see what he’s got.”

“Okay, then that’s where we’ll start.”

  


# # #

 

 **Lucifer’s Chambers, The** **_Cage_ ** **, location unknown** **  
** **Present Day**

 

Azazel adjusts his coat.  

The _Cage_ doesn’t feel like a ship.  It feels like a temple, or a tomb.  Lucifer’s chambers are bitterly cold and not even his acute night vision helps Azazel make out the details of the darkened corners of the room.

He’s made a good living serving various Imperial remnants since the end of the Civil War.  Most were pathetic, petty tyrants striving to consolidate power in the chaos after [Vader](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Vader)’s fall.  He hunted their bounties, took their credits, and watched them languish, fail, or be consumed by greater factions.  The First Order stands out.  It’s kept momentum, consolidating power in the Outer Rim.  

Still, he’s always careful to keep diverse clientele.  Especially clientele willing to pay as much as Belias promised.

He’s rethinking that now.  

There is a rustle, almost like wings, and Azazel snaps to attention, fingers resting on the grip of his blaster.  

“You must be the bounty hunter.”

“That’s right.”

Footsteps.  Bare feet on metal, almost inaudible.  Azazel tracks them as they circle around him.  “Do you remember an[ Alderaanian ](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Alderaan)refugee named Mary Winchester?”

Azazel’s fingers close on his blaster grip.  He narrows his eyes.   

Lucifer chuckles.  “You do.  Good.  You’ve had so many successes since, I wasn’t sure a decades-old assassination would rate.”

“In my business, it pays to remember.”

“I imagine it does,” Lucifer says, his voice suddenly dangerously close.

Azazel turns his head only the barest fraction.

Lucifer, only centimeters away, winks at him.

Azazel steps away, startled.  

Lucifer’s eyes glow, strange and sickly in the dark like a chemical fire.  His face is patchy, riddled with raw blisters.  His robes hang from him, bleached a dull white as if by neglect and age.  What skin Azazel can make out is riddled with weeping sores and scars.  

“So, let’s see how much memory can pay,”  Lucifer holds up a credit chip.  He smiles at it, almost leering, turning it between his fingers.  ”Tell me, do you take trophies?”

Azazel glances down at his coat, practical but decorated with trinkets here and there, fastened to the weave.  “Occasionally.”  

“Did you or your little crew take anything from Mary Winchester?  Besides her life, obviously.  Think hard.  It’s important.”

Azazel shakes his head.  “No.  The client wanted a political kill.  Trophies or theft would confuse the message, suggest a different motive.”

“Good.  Good,” Lucifer says, nodding.  Thoughtful.  “I’m told her family survived?”

“They weren’t the target.”

“Better.”  Lucifer rubs his hands together, like he’s trying to warm the cred chip between his palms.  “Very, very good.  Come on, ask me _why_ that’s good.”

“Okay.”  Azazel wets his lips.  “Why’s that good?”

“Because you, my yellow-eyed friend, are about to become obscenely rich.”  He tosses the credit chip to Azazel.  “Just as soon as you bring me John Winchester.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the immediate aftermath is addressed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a shortish chapter, but it's been an odd week.
> 
> Treefrogie84 is, as ever, amazing.

**In orbit around a moon near[Loronar](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Loronar)**   


By the time Dean leaves Sam and returns to the cockpit, Castiel has moved on.  The broken glass is cleared away, and save for the faint smell of spilled whiskey and a couple of (new and worrying) rattles in the ambient noise of the  _ Impala _ , there’s barely any sign that he’s just witnessed three impossible things in close succession.

“Baby, start up a systems diagnostic.  I’m gonna go do a visual.”

B4-8Y tweets a cautious affirmative.  Great.  Even his ship’s stressed out.

Castiel’s stylus catches his eye by chance, just a thin glint of the wrong color plastic in the edge of his vision.  Dean pockets it, uneasy.  He’d been rattled and raw when Castiel had offered his help, but he hadn’t expected the guy to be some kind of Force-wielding merc.  

Which means that his captors on Coruscant probably were too.  

It’d explain some things.  Unfortunately those are all things he’d written off as legend and rumor, and he’d damn well prefer not to get mixed up in any of them.  And yet, here he is.

And on top of that, he’s got to do a goddamn spacewalk.  Fucking fantastic.

Dean dons the [envirosuit](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Envirosuit) from the machine shop.  It’s bulky and heavy, especially in the  _ Impala’s  _ artificial gravity, but it’s comfortingly solid.  He goes through the familiar motions of checking each seal and testing the life-support system before fastening a toolkit around his waist.  The welder pack is heavier, but he heaves it onto his shoulders and buckles it across his chest.

He steps into the maintenance airlock, grips the rail, and opens the exterior hatch.

Microgravity always makes him queasy, and he’s never quite conquered the primal terror he feels crawling the exterior of a ship in flight.  He tries to imagine lowering himself into a deep lake instead of the infinite blackness of space.  Slipping and falling forever?  Hell no.  Give him a good, old-fashioned drowning any day.

Dean snaps the tether into place and activates the electromagnets in his gloves, boots, and kneepads.  Secured, he swings his knees up and plants his feet on the  _ Impala’s  _ hull.

It’s easier to relax once he’s on his feet.  The view, at least, is stunning.  The edge of the moon they’re orbiting glows brightly where it peeks over the aft section.  He can make out some areas of industrialization, but traffic is sparse.  Just an overgrown warehouse for the shipyards of Loronar.  The planet beyond is little more than a blue-green ball.

He turns his attention to his ship.

The damage is both worse and better than he’d feared.  The underside of the bow is scarred, scraped, and cratered by the debris that sent them hurtling out of control through the ruins of the Hosnian system.  He checks each ding and plate, making welds as he goes.  It’s slow going, and not a permanent fix, but it’ll keep them jump-worthy.  

The planet has disappeared behind its moon when he starts his walk along the curved edge of the freighter’s disc to inspect the upper deck.  

“Son of a bitch.”

The plating is in better shape, but the whole damn dorsal turret is gone, sheared away at the joint.  They’re lucky the gunner’s station didn’t rupture.  The last thing they need is a major atmo breach.

There’s nothing for it save to weld what’s left of the turret into place.  He curses as he works.  He’s going to have to rip out the whole damn assembly, straighten the frame, redo the seals…

It’s a damn good thing they’re headed for [Agamar](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Agamar).  There’s no way he’d be able to afford these kinds of repairs at a Core shipyard.  

With the turret sorted, he gives the upper hull one last inspection.  It ain’t pretty, but at least they’re not going to fly apart on the way to Bobby’s.  Well, probably not.  

He’s most of the way back to the airlock when he spots a bright spot near the engine vents: one of the passenger viewports.  Castiel’s light is on.  

He changes path, justifying it to himself as a matter of safety.  Castiel might be an asset, but he’s a strange and potentially dangerous one.  It’s a captain’s duty to check these kinds of things out.  

The angle is odd, the viewports being little more than skylights, and an aftermarket add-on by the original owner. Still, it’s not a bad view, even if he’s got to crouch to get a good look.  

Castiel’s facing away from him, sitting cross-legged in his bunk.  He’s stripped off his jacket and shirt, and his snug undershirt hugs the strong contours of his back and shoulders.  

Yeah, definitely not a bad view at all.  

His comm chirps and Dean is on his feet in a second, stepping away from the skylight like he’s been caught.

“Yeah?”

B4-8Y issues a stream of whistles and beeps, conveying the results of the system scan.  It’s mostly good news: major systems are functional, and with the exception of an unresponsive aft shield projector, everything is back online with only minor adjustments to compensate.  

“Thanks, Baby,” he says, resuming his walk to the airlock.  “Go ahead and start the plot for Agamar.  I’m just about done out here.”

An affirmative chirp and a click as the commlink channel closes.  Dean spares a last, guilty glance at the glowing rectangle of Castiel’s viewport, and shakes his head.  Yeah, ain’t no way this is gonna end well.

 

# # #

 

Castiel’s meditation does not come easily.

There is no calm, either in his circumstances or the Galaxy.  Achieving some semblance of it is a matter of discipline: still the body, focus the mind.  He tends to each in turn: body then mind, body then mind, until his breaths are slow and gentle and his awareness is clear.

Clarity is not comfort.  

Sam Winchester’s pain is a terrible, roiling shadow that invades his consciousness, threatening to draw him in and pull him under.  Sam’s pain isn’t singular: it’s just the clearest voice in a rippling sea of loss, anger, and terror.  

No, Castiel is not comforted.  He hurts.  He mourns.  And worst of all, he doubts, because Dean is right: what good is he if he can save two men but lets whole worlds burn?

He misses Maz.  He wishes he could tell her his hurts so she could comfort him and offer him some kind of wisdom.  Would her affection for him be enough to see past a failure of this magnitude?  Would she still see good in him?  Or would she tick her goggles into place, peer at him, and find nothing?

No, clarity is not comfort.  It is despair.  

He sits with it, feels it seep into him and through him.  Some dim spark of awareness warns against letting it consume him, but the temptation to succumb is tremendous.  

A soft tingle along his spine severs the thought.  Curious.  Appreciative.  Sensual.  Castiel opens his eyes in surprise and looks up, but sees no one.  

A minute later, he hears the hiss and clunk of an airlock, then the heavy tread of an envirosuit.

Dean.

Castiel gives up his meditation.  He sprawls out on his bunk and stares up through the viewport.  Being spied on gives him no pleasure whatsoever, but he expects Dean would feel equally uncomfortable if he knew that Castiel had felt his gaze.  It doesn’t balance out, but it lends the whole experience a strange kind of intimacy.  

It isn’t difficult, given the nature of that gaze, to imagine further intimacies…

Castiel dismisses that thought outright.  What he knows about Dean Winchester can be summed up in three points: he has a brother, a propensity for violence, and dangerous enemies.  He still doesn’t properly know why Dean was on Coruscant, or what he’s looking for.

Gods, what has he gotten himself into?

The rap on the door startles him.  

“Hey, Magic Fingers,” Dean calls from the other side.  “You in there?”

“Just a moment,” Castiel says, scrambling to his feet to answer the door.

Dean leans against the corridor support, rumpled and sweat-damp from the envirosuit.  His stance is heavy with fatigue from his work on the hull, but his eyes are sharp as ever.  

Castiel pointedly does not look at the way Dean’s shirt clings to his chest and stomach.  

“We’re safe to jump and headed to Agamar within the hour.”

“Agamar?”

“Sam and I have a family friend out that way.  As it happens, he’s a solid contact.  You still in to help, or am I dropping you off on Loronar on the way out?”

“I’m still in, though I wouldn’t mind a more thorough briefing at some point.”

“I’ll bring you up to speed during the jump,” Dean says, not quite making eye contact.  He pats the durasteel panel with his hand before he turns back down the curved corridor.  “Anyway.  Get comfy.  It’ll be a five day trip, give or take.”

Castiel lingers in the doorway of his quarters, waiting until Dean rounds the corner out of sight, before pinching the bridge of his nose and letting out a long breath.

He really should have gone to Balmorra.

 

# # # 

 

Sam sits on the floor, knees to his chest, with his back resting against his bunk.  

He’s had time to finish the flask Dean gave him, and while he’s spent more than a little time weighing the merits of going to the galley, finding a bottle of something strong, and drinking until he can’t anymore, it’s too much effort.  

The hollow of his chest aches.  

His eyes light on the small black box beside him, and he picks it up for what must be the hundredth time since he left Dean’s quarters for his own space in the Second Mate’s cabin.  It’s almost tiny in his hands, just a handful of linear centimeters that fit easily in his jacket pocket.

Weeks, he’s carried it, waiting for the right moment to touch Jess’ arm, and smile, and drop to one knee like they do on Corellia.  He’s done it a hundred times in his mind -- every time his hand brushed against it, every time she smiled at him, every time he got distracted revising his work for his final exams -- and every time he imagined her saying yes.

He’s known.  He knew practically the first time they met.  

Sam throws the box, hard.  It hits the durasteel panel with an unsatisfying thunk and ricochets somewhere out of sight.  A fresh jag of sobbing erupts from his chest, and he grinds the heels of his hands against his eyes.  

The phosphenes look like a dying planet.  

“Sammy?  You in there?”

“Hang on,” he croaks.  He composes himself as he rises, wiping his face with the hem of his shirt and combing fingers through his hair.  

Dean is waiting, hands in pockets, when he opens the door.  

“Ship’s good.  I’ve got Baby working on the basic route plot.  I’m guessing five days.  We need to do a supply run on Loronar?  Get you some vegetables or something?”

Sam shakes his head.  “It’s fine.  I’m not really hungry.”

“Fair enough.”  Dean scuffs his boot against the decking, then looks up at Sam.  “You want to fly her out?”

Sam blinks, the offer taking him by surprise.  “Huh?”

“It’s just, you know.  With what went down on Coruscant, it might be good for you to log some practice time at the yoke.  Keep you sharp.”

“Yeah.  That’s...yeah.”

“Good.  Okay.”  Dean claps a hand on Sam’s shoulder, squeezes.  “Meet you up front when you’re ready.”

“Sure.”  

Sam steps back into his room, lets the door slide shut.  He spots the ring box by accident and reaches down for it.  He worries over the crack in the hard shell of it with his thumb before taking the ring out.  He digs through his bag and the drawers of the cabin until he finds one of Dean’s old boot laces.  It’ll do.

The ring looks odd, threaded on the faded black-green weave, but it feels right hung around his neck.  

He tucks it in under his shirt and heads for the cockpit.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which various parties are brought up to speed, and the lay of things becomes a little clearer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not dead! My good laptop is -- thanks to an animated conversation about Sam Winchester's sex life -- but I am not and the story is not and everything is awesome.
> 
> So yes. Thank you for sticking with me. Here's to semi-regular service resuming.

**Aboard the _Impala_ , Hyperspace**

 

Dean white-knuckles his way through as Sam brings them up to lightspeed.  It’s not that he isn’t the one at the yoke (except it sort of is).  It’s the the noises his Baby makes as they get to speed.  None of them should be a catastrophic issue -- he’s not an idiot -- but every one of them is another thing he’ll need to fix properly on Agamar.  

The thought alone would exhaust him if he wasn’t beyond it already.  He’s been going non-stop since their escape from the wreckage of the Hosnian system, and staying upright has been an act of will since finishing up the welds.  A glance at the console tells him he’s been awake going on twenty-six hours.

Which, given that he wasn’t 100% when they started out, justifies his need to find a soft, dark place to quit moving for a little while.

“You got this?” he asks, giving Sam a sidelong look.  The kid looks like hell, but he’s got something to do, which Dean knows will go further than the alternative.  

“Yeah.”

“Awesome.  I’m gonna go hit the [‘fresher](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Refresher/Legends) and try to get some shut-eye.  B4-8Y’s got the course.  Just let her know to go auto when you’re ready to take a break.  Wake me up if anything, uh--” he almost says explodes, but catches himself.  “You know.  If you need anything.”

“Got it.”

Dean gives Sam’s shoulder a squeeze on his way out of the cockpit, but his eyes are already on the door to his quarters, already grateful the en suite ‘fresher.  

(The only other ‘fresher on the ship is a shared unit down in the aft section next to the guest quarters. Dealing with a not-Jedi in a tight shirt to whom he may well owe not one but  _ two  _ life debts, and whose stylus is still in his damn pocket is more than he’s willing to cope with at the moment.)

He strips off with tired efficiency the minute the door closes behind him.  He leaves his clothes in a heap to be dealt with when he’s able to give a damn, and then shuffles into the ‘fresher booth. The sonics kick on at their default setting and he closes his eyes while they work.

One of these days, he’ll get the kind with water and steam.  Those things are freaking marvelous. For now, though, he’s just glad to get clean and fall into his bunk for as long as his body and circumstances will allow.

 

# # #

 

Sam stays in the cockpit until what feels like the small hours of the morning.  He’s lagged, halfway between two time zones, and hyperspace travel doesn’t exactly provide any sort of time cues.  

He needs [caf](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Caf).  And food.  He hasn’t eaten since before…well,  _ before. _  He touches the ring through his shirt and heads to the lounge, where Castiel is already seated on one of the soft chairs, staring intently at his datapad.  

Sam offers him an awkward nod on his way to the small attached galley.  

“Couldn’t sleep?” Castiel asks, glancing up.

“Something like that,” Sam says as he eyes the rations, stacked in cupboards in their packets.  He smiles when he spots the battered old [autochef](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Autochef).  Dean used to adjust the settings to create odd combinations when they were kids.  He’d almost forgotten about cheesy noodles in sugared sauce, but now he wonders how something like that could ever escape him, or if Dean’s ever forgiven him for demanding that particular culinary disaster for months on end.

He makes a cup of caf, a small loaf of instant bread, and runs a packet of soup through the autochef, then carries it back to the lounge.  “So, uh, you really helped break Dean out of a security substation?”

Castiel looks up.  “Hm?”

“He said you helped him bust out.  After he got arrested for breaking into Senator Talbot’s apartments.”

Castiel frowns, squints.  “How much did he tell you?”

“Not a lot.”  Sam tears his loaf in half, then dips a piece in his soup.  “Just that you helped him out after he got caught.”  

“Ah.”

“Is that not what happened?”

“It is,” Castiel says as he closes the cover of his datapad.  “I did help him escape, but not from the police.  He’d already been illegally transferred to a third party, who’d been interrogating him for some time before I arrived.”

“Bounty hunters?”

Castiel shakes his head.  “No, I don't think so.  They wanted very specific information.  My understanding is that they’d been hoping to catch your father, but that your brother was seen as a possible substitute.  Can I ask...why Senator Talbot?”

Sam swallows, dips his bread again.  “That’s why we were on Coruscant.  Our dad -- he’s a hunter -- disappeared.  Everything Dean can find leading up to his disappearance seemed to point to her.  He thought she’d been offering him private contracts, and so he asked me to come along so he could get access to her private data.”

“And instead the Senator caught Dean during the break-in, which was either a very unfortunate coincidence or…”

“You think she was there on purpose?”

Castiel shrugs.  “It’s possible.  Given the level of corruption necessary to make what happened to your brother possible, using a senator for bait almost seems reasonable.”

Sam sighs.  “Dad must’ve really pissed someone off this time.”

“Or have something someone really wants, yes.”  

Sam swirls his soup with a piece of bread.  “You know, I really thought I’d made it out this time.”

“This time?”  Castiel raises his eyebrows.

“Dad and I...well, we didn’t get along.”  He looks down at the bowl in his hands.  “I was never quite what he wanted.  There wasn’t a day he didn’t make that perfectly clear.  But he didn’t like to lose, either.  Running away from home when your dad’s a bounty hunter?  Surprisingly ineffective.”

“You tried more than once.

“Until I figured out it was Dean who took the punishment for it, yeah.”  He looks up at Castiel.  “Sorry.  That was, uh…”

“It’s fine.”  

Sam finishes his soup.  He’s got bread left, which he picks apart into smaller pieces.  “So.  Crew.”

“So it seems.”  Castiel settles back into his seat.  “Not what I expected to be doing when I set out, but here we are.”

“What did you expect?

Castiel offers Sam a wan smile.  “I’ve learned that where the Force is concerned, one shouldn’t have too many expectations.”

“Dad always told us that the Jedi were dead.  We knew they were real, but--”

“I’m not Jedi.  I’m not anything.”

“Right.”  Sam looks down.  “Sorry.”

“I’m not offended,” Castiel says.  “The Jedi traveled, recruited, involved themselves in politics.  They proselytized.  Most cultures aware of the Force did not.  Their traditions were closed or localized and secretive.  The galaxy sees the Force through a Jedi lens.  It’s only chance that stopped me joining them.”  

“The[ Jedi purge](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Great_Jedi_Purge) was what, twenty years before[ Yavin](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Battle_of_Yavin)?”  Sam’s brow furrows.  “You can’t be that old.”

“I’m not. [Skywalker](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Luke_Skywalker) tried -- and failed -- to revive the Jedi Order after the Republic was restored.”

“Wait.  You almost trained under  _ Luke Skywalker? _ ”

“Yes,” Castiel says as he rises, cup in hand.  He pads across the lounge and refills his cup.  “Though if I had, [I’d likely be dead right now](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Destruction_of_Luke_Skywalker%27s_Jedi).  You’ll forgive me if I don’t regard that point with regret.  Though I suppose I’d have been better trained before I perished.”  

Sam blinks, unsure what to say to that.

“In any case, here we are.”  Castiel says as he returns to his seat and sets his cup on the table beside his chair.  “Whether we deserve it or not.”  

# # #

Dean’s dreams are a scream of color and activity.  They’re not nightmares -- nothing so coherent -- but they’re abrupt and disjointed.  He jerks awake by sheer force, pulling himself out of the riot, hand already on the holdout blaster he keeps beneath his pillow.  

Nothing.  His quarters are empty, lit only by the dim light from the ‘fresher suite.  He lowers his hand, lets out a long breath, and runs his hand through his sweat-damp hair.  

He’s heard about interrogation drugs causing weird dreams, but he’d hoped that two days unconscious on Coruscant might have saved him the trouble.  Apparently not.  

Gods, he needs a drink.  

He reaches into the drawer of his bedside table for his flask, then remembers that Sam has it.  The Tevraki’s gone too, smashed in the cockpit.  

Dean curses under his breath, then tucks his fingers up under the drawer.  There’s a click as the small compartment opens.  He removes a small glass bottle, filled halfway with a yellowish green crystalline powder.  

He pulls the cap, taps a small amount of powder into his palm, and then snaps the cap back in place before licking his palm clean.  It’s not the most elegant way to take a hit of [spice](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Spice), but it’s effective.  The bitter powder dissolves on his tongue.  Dean drops back onto the mattress to doze, relaxing into the mellow, pleasant sensations of the high.  

When he wakes again, hours later, he feels... less edgy, if not refreshed.  He’s still got some aches and pains from Coruscant, but he can ignore them, lump them in with sore muscles from yesterday’s repairs.  

He goes about the business of keeping his ship moving -- checking in with B4-8Y, running some mid-flight diagnostics -- before grabbing a bottle from the galley and settling in to watch holonovelas in the cockpit.

It’s not a bad way to pass the time.  

“What is this?” Sam asks when he appears a few hours later, cup of caf and his datapad in hand.

“ _ Tus Kws Kho Mob Tau Nxtim Hlub _ ,” Dean says noncommittally.  “I think the title translates to ‘Sexy Doctor’ or something.  Got it on Balosar for, like, two credits.”  He may or may not also have the previous three seasons stored away in memory.  And know most of the dialogue by heart.

Sam raises his eyebrows, eyes flicking up to the holo, then back down to his brother.

“What?” Dean snaps.  

“Nothing.”  Sam says, clearly amused.  

“Bitch,” Dean grumbles.

“Jerk.”

 

# # #

 

Aside from his short interaction with Sam in the lounge, Castiel spends the first three days aboard the Impala in solitude.  

It isn’t a difficult feat.  All three of them seem to keep independent routines.  Sam’s seems to include long hours in his quarters or the cockpit, as does Dean’s.  He hears them talking on occasion, but keeps his distance.  He sleeps when he is tired, eats when hungry, and then spends his remaining time either meditating or reading in his quarters, or practicing fighting forms in the hold when the others are otherwise occupied.  

He tells himself it’s out of courtesy, though to which one of the brothers he couldn’t say.  

Truth be told, he’s avoiding them both, Dean in particular.  It’s simpler to feel safe when he’s unseen, and given Dean’s reaction to his abilities, he’s not looking forward to the inevitable confrontation on that topic.  Better to avoid it until they land on Agamar, where he can make a swift exit if necessary.

Castiel enters the cargo hold, body already warm from the exercises he could do in his quarters.  He runs through a series of stretches anyway, loosening up the large muscles in his legs, arms, and back before choosing a space in the center of the hold to begin.  

He begins with [Echani](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Echani_\(martial_art\)), expanded and honed since his childhood dabbling.  He progresses through the foundational forms, each movement flowing from one to the next like wind among trees.  He adds complexity as he goes; what begins as a simple kick in the first progression becomes an opportunity to send an opponent flying, each hand strike a potential grapple, each feint a new opening.  He challenges himself to be faster, more precise.  He tries to fathom ways that his opponents could dodge or subvert his strikes and aims to compensate.  He integrates other techniques -- a brutal [K’thri](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/K%27thri) flurry here, an axe kick cribbed from [Nelprin](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Vula_Nelprin) there -- before drawing his vibroblade from the scabbard strapped to his thigh.  

There’s no need for him to imagine what his blade can do.  He’s fought enough to know how to rend an opponent’s armor, as well as the flesh within it.  He integrates it into his forms, Echani and K’thri both, as well as some techniques lost to all but those able to open the handful of stolen [holocrons](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Holocron) he’s found on his travels.  

(Techniques meant, he knows, for a much more ancient weapon, but even a vibroblade can block a blaster bolt with the right weave.)

He finishes with a spinning flourish, blade tucked back behind his arm before sweeping down in a powerful coup de grace.

“Remind me not to piss you off.”

Castiel’s head snaps up.  

Dean leans against an empty shelving unit near the cargo hold entrance, hands in pockets.  He’s dressed a light shirt, dark gray utility pants, and work boots.  “Figured I’d see what you did in here.  Gotta say, I’m feeling a little bit outclassed.”  

“I practice,” Castiel says as he sheathes his weapon.  

“No shit,” Dean says, straightening up and stepping further into the hold.  “Where’d you learn your Echani?”

“Talus.”

Dean raises his eyebrows.

Castiel sighs.  “And then a couple of other planets.”

“Was one of them [Eshan](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Eshan)?  You don’t move like an Imp.”

“I was, at best, an infant when the Empire fell,” he says, but he knows what Dean is getting at.

“Dad started me on what he learned in the Imp Navy.  They did a dumbed-down K’thri in boot camp, but his unit trained with some Intelligence squads now and again.  He picked up a few things.”  

Dean’s shift into what appears to be a fairly sloppy first stance is almost instantaneous, requiring only a quick turn of his hips and a pivot of his now-rear foot as his hands leave his pockets.  He winks, gestures for Castiel to join him.  

Castiel moves to mirror him, uncertain, but Dean shakes his head.

“No, I mean hit me,” Dean says.  

“Hit you?”

“Yeah.  Hit me.”

Castiel licks his lips, then moves into his own, more formally-inflected stance.  He takes a tentative swipe at Dean’s flank, fully expecting a simple block.  Instead, Dean grabs Castiel’s arm and plants an elbow in his ribs -- lightly -- before shoving him away.  

Not sloppy, then.  Or, rather, deliberately so.

Castiel feints low with his left foot.  Dean reacts, but catches the true strike with his palm, shoving Castiel’s fist to the side before taking advantage of the opportunity to plant his knuckles in Castiel’s upper arm.  

Again, lightly.

“I just saw you practice.  I know what I’m getting into.”

“You have me at a disadvantage, then,” Castiel retorts as he tries -- and fails again -- to land a blow.  “I’ve no idea what you’re capable of, and I’d prefer to keep you in one piece after all the trouble I went through to put you back together again.”

“So don’t hit me accidentally.  Do it on purpo--”

Castiel grabs Dean’s wrist and pulls.  His elbow connects with Dean’s jaw just a little harder than necessary before Castiel pushes him, sweeping his legs out from under him in a single fluid movement.

Dean doesn’t fall.  He grabs Castiel’s arm -- the one that sent him falling -- and pulls himself past it, stealing Castiel’s balance.

Castiel only just slips out of Dean’s grip, narrowly avoiding a grapple.  “You fight like a spacer.”

“I  _ am  _ a spacer,” Dean snaps.

“It wasn’t an insult.”  

They circle, building up speed as they test each other’s defenses.  He can see the bastardized Imperial Echani in Dean’s style, as well the K’thri, and hints of what might even be some third-hand [Teräs Käsi](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Ter%C3%A4s_K%C3%A4si).  Which, while rare and impressive on its own, is less remarkable than Dean’s ability to synthesize his hodge-podge of styles into something coherent.

Dean, for his part, exudes an almost animal joy in their sparring.  Each blow Castiel lands on him seems only to goad him to do better, and each strike he lands on Castiel provokes a quip.  

“How did they even catch you on Coruscant?”

“Got pistol-whipped,” Dean says.  He slips under Castiel’s defenses to plant two light strikes: one to his inner thigh and one to his solar plexus.  “I prioritized distraction and got nailed.”

“Risky.”

“Eh, Sam’s big as a [Wookiee](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Wookiee), but he can blend.  I knew he’d get out if I gave him an opening.”

As if on cue, Castiel’s heel finds the back of Dean’s knee.  He presses his advantage, striking out at Dean’s face and side in an effort to drive him off-balance.  Dean grasps Castiel’s outside hand by the wrist and tries to pull past it.

Instead of fighting it, Castiel grips Dean’s arm, whips him upright, and then drops, pulling them both down onto the decking in a tangle of limbs, with Dean more or less straddling him.

Dean grins.  “Does this mean I win?”

Castiel laughs.  “Under the circumstances, I’m willing to concede.”

“That’s a yes.”  Dean stands, helps Castiel to his feet.  “Can’t help but notice there wasn’t any lightning, telekinesis, hands-free choking--”

“This would be  _ that _ conversation, then.”  

Dean shrugs and takes a seat on a crate.  “Like I said before, we weren’t done.”

Castiel crosses his arms and looks down.  “So what do you want to know?”

“Whether you’re an asset or a liability.  Whether my brother and I are safe around you.  What your real reason for coming along with us is.”

“You and Sam have nothing to fear from me.”

“Okay, so that’s one down.”

“Two, I’m probably both an asset  _ and  _ a liability.  I’ve kept a low profile when I can, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t people who would hunt me if they knew what I was.  But I can also fight, and think, and I have the Force at my disposal.

“Meaning?”

Castiel reaches up and rubs his forehead.  “I can...sense things, sometimes at a great distance.  I can enhance my reflexes, anticipate another’s actions.  I have some limited skill at confusing an opponent’s senses and manipulating their actions.  I can occasionally move things without touching them.”

Dean raises his eyebrows.  “Just things?”

“People can be things.”

“Right.”  Dean gives him a look that, given his background and line of work, might literally be an appraising one.  “Go on.”  

“I wasn’t lying when I said the Force led me to you.  Gabriel and I were en route to a different system when I knew I needed to be on Coruscant.  The nearer I got, the clearer things became.”

“So what, you landed and got an address?”

Castiel shakes his head.  “More like scraps of vision and sensation.  Some direction, yes, but until I found the warehouse things were still vague.”

“Sensation?”

“You were in a lot of pain.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, rubbing at his jaw with the heel of his hand.  “So.  Alistair.  And Meg.  What’s their deal?”

“You know as well as anyone that the Empire’s resources didn’t just disappear after the [Battle of Endor](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Battle_of_Endor).  The Republic claimed what it could, and prosecuted everyone they could catch, but there have always been pockets of residual influence.”

“Good money in them,” Dean says, one corner of his mouth ticking up into a smile.  ”Sometimes from all sides if you play it right.”

“So if the Empire persists, it stands to reason that the [Sith](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Sith) and their sympathizers do as well.”

Dean blanches as he puts the pieces together.  

“I don’t know why they’re involved, Dean, or what they wanted from you or your father, but the only thing I felt more intensely than your pain when I rescued you was their darkness.”

“You’re crazy.”

“It’s been said.”

“No,” Dean says as he rises.  Having Castiel on board was one thing, but Sith?  “I mean you’re  _ crazy.   _ Sith?  You want to fight  _ Sith _ ?  I should have left you on fucking Coruscant. ”

"You didn't."

"Don't I fucking know it."  He sighs.  They'll figure this out.  That's what they do, him and dad.  They always figure things out.  "I need a _drink."_


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which allies are reunited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hi. I'm not dead. Whee!

**Agamar, Outer Rim Territories**

Dean circles wide as he descends into atmo.  Sprawling farmland covers most of the arable land, with small cities scattered here and there to support shipping and logistics. Anyone who thinks life is fair need look no further than [Agamar](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Agamar): the farmers here might cultivate produce and livestock of every description for tables in dozens of systems, but never seem to accumulate much of the wealth or power.

Singer’s Salvage Yard is a grubby oddity among the wide patches of green and gold, a dozen or so hectares of junked ships and equipment outside of [Calna Muun](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Calna_Muun).  From above, it looks like the leftovers from the city got spilled out into the outskirts and nobody bothered to tidy up.

It’s also the nearest thing to home Dean has outside of his ship, and the descent to the gravel landing zone near Bobby’s old farmhouse is as familiar as walking.  

He spots Bobby during the descent, crossing the yard to meet them.  Tarkin, his [akk dog](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Akk_dog), follows  on his heels, sniffing the air.  She’s small for her breed, but that’s relative.  Her shoulders come up to Bobby’s waist, and her jaws could rip a man’s arm clean off if she had a mind to.

(In Dean’s experience the worst thing she’s likely to do is lick a man to death, though given that she weighs in at around 90 kilos, crushing is a real possibility.)

The _Impala_ comes to a rest on her landing gear as he powers down the repulsors, settling in with a soft lurch as gravity asserts itself.  

“This is it?” Castiel asks, squinting out through the viewscreen at the worn house and wrecks that surround it.  

“Home sweet salvage yard,” Dean replies as he and Sam power down the last few systems necessary for flight.  “Spent a lot of summers out here.”

“And winters,” Sam says.  “And springs, and…”

“Kinda grew up here when we weren’t on ship,” Dean says as he lowers the ramp.  “Come on.  Let’s go get settled in.”

# # #

Bobby shields his eyes against the afternoon sun as he watches the hatch open.  The _Impala_ ’s unmistakable, but never in this kind of shape.  It ain’t good.  Hell, he’s surprised she made it into atmo without burning up.

Dean’s the first down the ramp with a battered hiking pack slung over one shoulder, and Sam follows close behind with his own bag in hand.  There’s a third man he doesn’t recognize, which on its own would be unusual, but given John’s disappearance...    

Tarkin lets out a little “whuff” as she shoves her armored skull up against his hand, demanding his attention.  Bobby rubs the scaly skin between the plates of her neck, bracing as she leans into the touch.

“You broke your ship,” Bobby calls out as Dean gets close.  “What’d you do, run her through an asteroid field?”

“Something like that.”  Dean doesn’t smile, instead casting an uneasy glance in Sam’s direction.

Bobby doesn’t need any more clues to put things together.  Shit, they’re lucky to be alive.

“Well, let’s have a look at you,” Bobby says, turning his attention to Sam.  “What’s it been? Three,  four years?”

“Just about.”  Sam doesn’t quite meet Bobby’s eyes as he steps forward.  Hell, the kid’s a giant, but he almost manages to look small.  

“Dammit, boy.  Get over here,” he says, and opens his arms.

The relief on Sam’s face breaks his damn heart, though that feeling is quickly subsumed by nearly being crushed.  When Sam does finally break away, his eyes are wet.  

Bobby pats him on the shoulder before moving on to stranger beside Dean.  “Who’s this?”

“Cas,” Dean says.  “He helped us out on Coruscant.”

“Bobby Singer.”  He extends a hand, and Cas takes it readily.  Up close, Bobby thinks he understands why Dean brought him on.  His hands are callused by weapons, work, or both, and he’s got a pair of eyes like Bobby hasn’t seen since he ran for the Rebellion.  Where Dean found a damn Keshian is anyone’s guess, but ain’t no sense in questioning good fortune.  “Y’all eat yet?  I was getting ready to throw some dinner together.”

“As long as it’s not [mugruebe](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Mugruebe) stew, I’m in,” Dean says.

“Mugruebe’s not so bad,” a new voice pipes up from behind a junked-out speeder.  Bobby, for his part, tries not to smile at the shock on Dean’s face.  

Jo Harvelle steps out, gravel crunching under her boots.  Her [lekku](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Twi%27lek) rest neutral on her shoulders, her green skin vivid against the grays and blues of her jacket.  If he needed words to describe her expression, Bobby might go with predatory innocence.  “I mean, it’s not as nice as the food on [Tanaab](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Taanab), but it’s nice to have a choice, right?”

 

# # #

 

“How--” Dean sputters.  If there’s one face he didn’t expect, it’s Jo’s.

“I’m not an idiot, Dean.  I programmed half of the fake transponder codes on that ship.”  She crosses her arms and smirks.  “You really didn’t think I’d track you down?”  

He swallows.  “Jo--”

She steps right past him.  “You must be Sam.  I’m Jo.”

“Dean mentioned you,” he says, shaking her hand.  “This is Castiel.”  

“Helped out on Coruscant.  I heard.”  She pats him on the arm, then turns back to Dean.  “It’s nice to know it takes two other crew members to replace me.  We’re gonna have to renegotiate my cut.”

“It’s not like that.”

“No, it’s you being stupid and overprotective,” she says, rolling her eyes.  “Dean, you and your dad lost your [Guild](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Bounty_Hunters%27_Guild/Legends) status because of me and my mom.  You think I don’t want to help you find him?”

“I think I don’t want to have to explain why I can’t bring you home.”

“Dean, we’re _freelance bounty hunters_.  You and your dad are on the Guild’s blacklist.  Tell me again how our lives are safe.”

“Fine,” He sighs, and pulls his father’s datapad out of his pack. “You want to know how serious this is?  This serious.”

“Why do you--” Jo says, gobsmacked.  “Your dad--”

“Never lets it out of his sight.  All his notes, his contacts, everything is in here.”  Dean shakes his head.  “Look, you’re right.  I’m an idiot.  Whatever.  But this thing is either a message or a trap.  What if it’s someone from the Guild looking to settle things?”

She takes breath.  Nods.  “Right.  You’re dead, but I’m...”

“Stolen property, yeah.”  He takes the datapad back and stuffs it in his pack.  

“You’re still an idiot,” she says.  “And we’re still re-negotiating my cut.”

“Who says I still need you?  I mean, I’ve got these two guys--” he winces as she punches him in the arm, but at least she’s smiling.  “We good?”

“Ah, hell.  Why not?”

“Alright, then,” Bobby says from behind them.  “Unless anyone else wants to have an awkward reunion, I’m thinkin’ I should go get some food together.”

 

# # #

 

Bobby’s house isn’t small, but five people is still an army, and there aren’t enough beds to go around.  They make do, with Jo remaining in the guest room, Sam and Dean in their childhood room, and Castiel bunking in Bobby’s study.

Dinner is awkward.  With Sam being in mourning, and Castiel being...well, Castiel...it’s almost a bad joke: an old man, two bounty hunters, a law student, and a Force sensitive walk into a cantina.  It’s not funny, but hell if Dean doesn’t spend half the meal trying to find a way to make it work while Sam and Bobby catch up.  

He excuses himself, leaves his dishes on the kitchen counter, and steps out onto the back porch.  

He considers going out to the shed and dusting off the speeder bike he keeps there.  He could go into Calna Muun, get well and truly wasted, get laid, but his heart’s not in it tonight.  Instead, he wanders out into the familiar chaos of the salvage yard.  He can kid himself it’s practical -- looking for replacement hull plates, parts for the turret -- but really he just needs...space.

It doesn’t take him long to find the cab of a busted old [AT-ST](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/All_Terrain_Scout_Transport), its legs long ago sold off or repurposed.  He climbs in and settles into the worn pilot’s seat.  The control panel is long dead, but it doesn’t stop him idly fiddling with the switches.  

He and Sam used to play out here.  It’s a good memory.  

And, he thinks as he pulls the flask out of his pocket, as good a place to drink as any.

 

# # #

 

Comfortable as it is, Bobby Singer’s study leaves something to be desired in the privacy department.  

Case in point: Jo Harvelle, lounging in an arm chair, staring at him while he tries to connect his datapad to the local HoloNet service.  It would be unsettling enough on its own without the way she insists on playing with a knife while she watches, absently flipping it back and forth in her hand.  

He does his best to ignore her, grateful for his years of meditative practice.

She shifts closer, brows furrowed.  “So what’s your deal, anyway?”

“My deal?”  Castiel blinks at her.

“You’re not a pilot, so you’re not my replacement, and Dean’s fussy as shit about his crew.  Did someone hit him on the head or something?”

He looks down at the note he’s writing his father on his datapad, then switches off the screen.   “You’re saying I’m not his type?”

“Oh, I don’t know about that.”  Jo says, looking him over with a smirk.  “It’s just weird that he asked you to sign on.  He almost never does that.  I mean, with his dad being missing and all, I guess things are different.  But usually he likes to keep it in the family: Bobby, Pastor Jim, Danny Elkins.  People he knows won’t screw him over.”

“Screw him over like, say, Gabriel Shurley?”

The tips of Jo’s lekku twist a little at the name.  “You know that bantha-fucker?”

“He’s my brother.”

Jo sputters.  

“Adopted.  He’s human.  Our father’s Hapan.”

“Sweet goddess.”  She covers her mouth with her hands.  

The corners of Castiel’s mouth tick up in a faint smile.  “If it helps, I’m aware of what happened at Fornax Station.  Personally, I’m impressed with your keen sense of justice, though I’m disappointed you didn’t jettison his droid.”

Jo tilts her head at him, considers.  Smiles.  “Oh yeah, I think we’re gonna get along fine.”

 

# # #

 

The lists of dead and missing are impossibly long, and just as impossible to parse. [Alderaan](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Destruction_of_Alderaan) is the only real precedent for such a disaster, but it was just one planet.  Multiple populated worlds, the Republic government, hundreds of major cities, whole _cultures..._

Sam closes his eyes and lets the tears come.  He touches Jessica’s ring.  The loss still doesn’t feel real.  He keeps expecting to find a message from her, or to hear her voice, smell her perfume.

He’s been combing the lists for her name, and his friend’s names.  Even if he can’t find her name, he’s already found so many: Luis, Brady, Rebecca…

“Damn it,” he snaps, and puts the datapad down.  He flops backwards on the bed and stares at the ceiling.  

There’s no reason to hope that anyone he knows is alive.  The attack came out of nowhere.  Evacuations were impossible.  

He wishes he could just go _home_.  He wishes...  

He reaches blindly for his datapad, keys a command to bring up a short holo of Jess.  They were in the city center that day, he remembers, and he’d caught her sitting on the edge of a fountain. She’d been so beautiful he’d recorded her while she laughed and blushed, waving him off until finally she took things into her own hands by standing and kissing him.

There’s a HoloNet page where survivors are posting notes, holos, messages to missing and lost loved ones.  It’s not quite a memorial, exactly, though there are plenty of those in the mix.  He edits down the holo clip -- just Jess smiling, the breeze in her hair -- and adds a few words.  It’s not much, but given that her family lived in the capitol, it’s probable that they’re gone too.  There’s every chance he’s the only one left to remember her properly, and she deserves to be remembered.  

He plays it. Replays it.  Uploads it.  

“I miss you, Jess,” he says, sweeping his fingers along the light of the holo as the tears come again.  “I miss you so much.”

 

# # #

 

“Figured I’d find you out here,” Bobby says, joining Dean in the walker’s cab.  

Dean shrugs.  “Needed some air.”

“That’s what we’re calling it now?” Bobby says as he tilts his head toward the flask.

“Guess so.”  He passes the flask to Bobby, who takes a swig and passes it back.  “Listen, Bobby, there’s more going on here than Sam told you.”

“I kinda figured that.”

“No, I mean Sam doesn’t know everything.”  He licks his lips.  “He knows I got caught on Coruscant, and that the cops turned me over to some kind of mercs who did a number on me.”

Bobby raises his eyebrows.  “So what about that didn’t you tell him?”

“Well, for one thing they, uh, they didn’t want to talk about Dad.”  He fidgets with the flask, spinning and tightening the cap.  “They wanted to talk about Mom.  They think that she had something she wanted.  Called it a spear.”

“A spear?”  

“Yeah, it was weird.”

“And the other thing?”

“They picked my brain inside out.  Cas thinks they’re Force users with some kind of Sith ties.”  Dean takes a swig from the flask.  “This is so far above my pay grade, it’s in another damn system.”

"This Cas guy, do you trust him?"

Dean shifts.  "I don't know, Bobby.  He helped me out -- hell, he didn’t just pull me out of there, he saved me and Sam from getting killed in what’s left of the Hosnian System -- but the timing’s...I don’t know.  I can imagine planting a fake rescue on Coruscant, but the rest of it’s too big.”

“You can say that again.”

“Plus, there’s the Force thing.  I always figured it was sleight of hand and superstition, but now…”  Dean shakes his head.  “The Jedi were dicks.  Same with the Sith.  He says he's not either, but I’m not exactly an expert on space witches."  

"Why'd you bring him along?"

He shrugs.  "We need him.  He saved me.  I don’t know.  Take your pick.”  

Bobby nods.  Dean empties his flask, then tucks it back into his pocket.  "Tell you what, though.  The guy can fight."

"You see him in action?"

"He's been practicing in the hold.  We've sparred a couple of times.  I’d bet good credits he’ll be out here in the yard tomorrow.  I can’t wait to see him throw down with Jo."

“Now there’s a spectacle,” Bobby says with a chuckle.  “Think he’ll be able to keep up?”

“Guess we’ll find out.”

 

# # #

 

Castiel watches from the ground, peering up where Dean dangles from the _Impala_ ’s hull in a climbing harness.  The morning sun interferes with his vantage, but he can see that Dean’s managed to rig a series of pulleys and a couple of half-junked repulsor sleds into a sort of hoist to raise and lower parts and materials.  

“Don’t you think this would be simpler in microgravity?” he calls out

“Why, you got a berth in a shipyard somewhere?”  Dean answers, adjusting the controls on the cutter.  “Or, you know, a way to transport everything?”  

Dean doesn’t wait for Castiel’s answer; he flips down his mask and continues a cut along a damaged piece of hull plating.  

The metal makes an alarming shriek as the chunk of hull falls into the improvised rig, but Dean seems unfazed.  He engages the magnets on his kneepads, fastens himself to the hull, and hangs upside down, eyes fixed on the damaged plate as he lowers it to the ground using a remote.

Castiel holds his breath when Dean pushes off of the hull, disengaging the magnets.  He swings in a clean arc, reaches out, and catches a hand grip.  He attaches his tether to the new anchor point, then swings back to disengage it from the previous one.   

It dawns on him suddenly that Dean isn’t making do, but that this is the way he’s always worked: few resources beyond his own skill and what he can find.  There’s no faking the easy confidence in his movements, or his utter trust in his equipment.  He’d quipped the first time they’d sparred that Dean fought like a spacer -- using inertia, grapples, keeping his opponent close -- but now he sees that it isn’t just the way he fights.  It’s written in the way Dean moves, practically dancing with physics.

Castiel licks his lips, transfixed.  Exhales.  Swallows.

“Hell of a view, huh?”

He startles, turns to find Jo smirking about three paces back.  

“Hey, not judging,” she says, holding her palms up toward him in mock surrender.  “Believe me, I get it.”  

Castiel raises his eyebrows, glances back up at Dean before turning back to Jo.  

“Anyway,” she says, “As much as I hate to interrupt, your datapad was going off.  Figured it might be important.”  She passes him the device, still secured in its case.

He opens the cover.  Sure enough, the message indicator is flashing.  A handful of taps later, Gabriel’s voice comes over the speaker.  

“Hey little bro.  No idea where you are, or if you’ve heard, but [the First Order hit Takodana](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Battle_on_Takodana).  Maz is fine -- the Resistance ran ‘em off -- but...well.  I figured you’d want to know.  Anyway, let me know if you get this.”

He stares at the datapad and considers, briefly, throwing it as hard as he can.

“The nearest spaceport,” he begins, voice uncannily steady.  “It’s in Calna Muun?”

Jo blinks at him.  “Um.  Yeah?”

“Good,” he says, and starts back toward Bobby’s farmhouse.  He’s left nothing of import on the _Impala_ , and if he begins walking now, perhaps he’ll make the city by nightfall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick note on Bobby's akk dog's name: early on in the actual show, when we meet Bobby, he's got a rottweiler named Rumsfeld, a Republican political figure who was at the time -- or possibly had just finished being, I'd have to check dates -- Secretary of Defense under George W. Bush. 
> 
> I thought it'd be funny to give Bobby's enormous reptomammal an equivalent name, and Wilhuff Tarkin (http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Tarkin) was exactly the right bastard for the job. Nasty piece of work, along with much of his family as far as I can tell. 
> 
> (Bobby's dog, meanwhile, is a delight.)


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which old wounds are brought to light, a hostage is questioned, and somebody borrows a ship.

Castiel meditates as he walks along the rough shoulder of the road.  He focuses his awareness on his body in motion, in contact with the surface of the road, the flow of atmosphere around him.  He tracks the rhythm of his steps, the rhythm of his breath, the rhythm of his blood.  

It doesn’t ease the shocks of anxiety that crackle through him like static charges, jumping nerve to nerve from his heart all the way down to his fingers, numbing his tongue, tensing any part of him he doesn’t relax deliberately.  

Without thinking, he makes a swift gesture with his right hand, prying a stone from the ground with the Force and then propelling it down again hard enough that it shatters.

Anger wants justification, and this anger has it. [An attack by the First Order on a civilian outpost is worthy of anger](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Battle_on_Takodana).  It is worthy of a  _ response _ , swift and furious, and he can feel bright living wrath blooming in his chest, ready to burn anything it touches.  His hands are ready.  His will is strong.  

He pries another stone from the ground with a gesture, then begins a slow squeeze with his fingers.  

_ No. _

Castiel stops, lets the stone fall.  He closes his eyes and breathes.  He doesn’t will away the anger, but examines it gently, looking for its roots.  Shock and horror at an atrocity is obvious, certainly, but beneath it is the rage of a frightened child.  Bad enough that his so-called gifts have failed him twice, but that it was Maz, who took him in, under attack?  He hates that he wasn’t there to protect her.  

(And that he was sent away in the first place, no matter how much he loves his father and his family, but that’s an old scar.)

He opens his eyes, as the anger recedes.  Not completely, but enough.

 

# # # 

 

“You let him get a head start?”

Jo rolls her eyes.  “It’s not like Calun Muun’s a short walk, Dean!”

“And you just let him go!”  Dean says, crossing his arms and rocking back on his heels.

“So what, I should have stopped him?”

“Yes!”

“Yeah, like that would have worked.  I saw the look on his face.  It’s real fucking familiar.  My boss made it right around the time he ditched me at my mom’s cantina on Tanaab.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Dean says.  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I’m telling you now!”  

“I mean when it happened!” he shouts, gesturing at the door and the salvage yard beyond.

“What, so you could leave a couple tons of durasteel hanging on by a few tabs of metal?  Sorry, Dean, but I’m not letting you fuck us out of a working ship because of somebody else’s family emergency.”

“That ‘somebody else’ is the reason I still have a ship to fuck up,” Dean snaps.  “So, you know, that kind of makes it  _ my  _ emergency.”

“What are you, a [Wookiee](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Wookiee) now?” Jo scoffs.  

“Y’all both might as well be,” Bobby grumbles from the kitchen door.  “You’re loud enough.”

Dean’s mouth snaps shut as he straightens up.  Bobby might not be his father by blood, but the man didn’t raise him to be disrespectful in someone else’s house.  “Bobby, Cas--”

“I heard.  So, what’re you gonna do about it?”

 

# # # 

 

He’s walked nearly two hours when he hears a speeder bike slow down beside him.  He’s not entirely surprised to see Dean in the saddle, but he has no idea how to feel about it.

“Jo told me.  After I was done pulling the bad plates -- which is going to be a whole different discussion later, believe me --”

He blinks up at Dean, brows furrowed.

“--but I get it.  Gabriel calls, you’ve got to answer.”  Dean eyes the road, then looks back to Castiel.  “So yeah.  You need a ride, right?”

He hesitates.  Nods.

“Great,” Dean says and shifts forward to make room. He tosses Castiel a pair of goggles from the rear compartment.   “Hop on.”

Castiel adjusts the strap on his duffel, securing it against his back before hoisting himself up into the saddle behind Dean.  There’s not a great deal of room and no hand-holds; he’s pressed against Dean, thighs resting along Dean’s own.  He has to hold on to Dean to maintain his seat when the bike starts to move.

He watches the terrain zip past: fields and small houses, bands of trees, and tries to ignore the odd ache growing in his chest.  He barely knows Dean, but he likes him.  He’s a good sparring partner, and despite his line of work, Castiel has begun to trust him, even regard him as a comrade.  

Walking away was easier than...whatever this is.  

It takes him a while to realize that they’ve circled around, back to Bobby’s salvage yard.  He’s about to object when he notices Jo doing external preflight checks on a battered [VCX-100](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/VCX-100_light_freighter).  Dean brings the bike alongside, then glides them up the loading ramp into the hold.  

“I thought you were taking me to Calna Muun.”

“I thought you needed to go to Takodana?” Dean asks, that same look on his face from earlier.  “I mean, if you wanted to go to Calna Muun--”

“I thought--”  He blinks, stunned.  “When you offered--”

“What can I say?  I’m full-service.”  Dean grins, winks.  “Come on.  Let me show you your bunk.”

 

# # # 

 

The  _ Chevelle _ doesn’t look like much.  Hell, it ain’t much.  Pre-war, busted up and put back together a dozen times, half-shared quarters and a mess that’s mostly a liquor cabinet where you can warm up a ration pack, its best feature is the engine.  Bobby might fly a rust bucket, but it’s a  _ functional  _ rust bucket, and Dean respects that. 

(He’s also grateful as hell that the man was willing to lend it to him and front him for fuel.  Bobby might have insisted  _ that’s what family’s for _ and that he should  _ hurry up and go find Cas and get him where he’s going  _ but none of them are rolling in credits and he’s been losing money hand over fist looking for his dad, and...)   

It bugs him, leaving the  _ Impala  _ in the state she’s in, but facts are facts: it’s going to take a while to get her back in shape.  Even if he sticks around to work while Sam and Bobby try and pin down who Talbot’s working for, there’s no guarantee his ship will be ready when they are.  Chances are they’d be piling into the  _ Chevelle  _ for a little while anyway.

_ So yeah,  _ he tells himself for about the fiftieth time, pointedly ignoring the way his brain keeps replaying the way it felt to have Cas pressed against him on the back of his bike,  _ this isn’t personal.   _ It’s about taking care of his crew, and... __

“And here we are.  Bunks,” he says as he steps into the main crew compartment: an open area with recessed berths, bunked one above the other in banks of two.  He points to the closed door beside one of the berths.  “The ‘fresher is in there.  Jo and I already picked ours.  Anything without a bag on it is free game.”  

“You’re both coming?”

“Ship doesn’t have a droid,” he says with a shrug.  

“But your ship--”

“She’ll take care of herself for now,” he says, pleasantly surprised that he means it.  “Anyway, get settled.  We’re lifting off as soon as Jo and I finish preflight.”  

 

# # # 

 

Sam and Bobby meet Dean outside the  _ Chevelle,  _ Tarkin in tow.  She’s been Sam’s shadow for the better part of their visit, either keeping him in sight or waiting outside his door.  It’s nice, though the grumpy look she’d given him when he refused to let him curl up in bed with him was pitiful beyond anything an enormous repto-mammal should be capable of.

Sam runs his fingers along the rough ridges behind Tarkin’s jaw.  “Takodana and back’s what, almost two weeks?”

“Give or take.  Depends on how long Cas needs to stay.”

Sam nods.    

“You gonna be okay out here?” Dean asks.  “What with, uh, you know…”    

Sam looks down.  Swallows.  “Yeah,” he says, then looks up again.  “There are definitely worse places for me to be right now.  Plus, it’s not like Bobby and I are going to be sitting on our thumbs or anything.  It’s good, you know, working on something.”

“You and research.”

“Me and research,” Sam says, smiling faintly as Dean pulls him in for a hug.

“Keep my brother out of trouble,” Dean tells Bobby as he steps back.

“Ain’t him I’m worried about,” Bobby scoffs before giving Dean a hug.  “And you’d damn well make sure to take better care of my ship than you do with yours, boy.” 

“Yes, sir,” Dean says with a wink.  

“Are you  _ still  _ down there saying goodbye?” Jo shouts down the ramp, feigning annoyance before winking at Sam and Bobby.  

“I think that’s my cue,” Dean says.  

Sam watches him as he joins Jo, the two of them bickering over who carried more supplies, and whose responsibility the job should have been.  

“Why do I feel like I’ve been replaced?” Sam asks, watching them.  

“You ain’t been replaced.”  Bobby says.  “But you got a little sister while you were away at school.”

The  _ Chevelle  _ rises from the ground, circles wide on ascent to altitude, and then zips out of sight.  Sam looks down at Tarkin, watching him intently with her round, shining eyes.  

“Come on, girl.  Let’s get back to work.”

 

# # # 

 

Azazel leans back in his pilot’s chair and rereads the report from Coruscant.

The last two decades have been, for want of a better term, a dance.  Not a difficult one -- his father was a hunter and a killer who raised him with the intention that Azazel would surpass him in ability -- but the Winchesters have been a stone to sharpen him.  Chasing them has taught him new ways to disappear, to selectively cover his tracks, to move quickly and nearly silent across the galaxy.  

He’s come to think of them fondly.  Too slow and stupid to be family, but useful and familiar.

When John disappeared...well, it seemed past time that the Winchesters had learned from his example.  But then Dean dropped his own contracts to sniff his father’s trail.  

He’d kept an eye, but he’s not sentimental.  

Coruscant complicates things.  What he’d taken for a feint by the elder Winchester looks more and more like a mystery.  He regrets letting the brothers reunite -- having Sam isolated on Hosnian Prime had been excellent in terms of potential leverage -- but the Winchesters have other associates, and a tendency to get attached to them.  A few well-placed blaster bolts do wonders for bringing people out of hiding.  

And speaking of hiding…

He stands, leaves his datapad behind.  He passes the door to his quarters in favor of descending to the old crew quarters and hold, long since refurbished into secure holding cells and interrogation areas.  

Senator Bela Talbot glares at him from behind the plexi of her cell.  “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you’ve picked a piss-poor time to hold a senator ransom,” she snaps.

“Not so bad, if you know the right people,” he says.  He opens a compartment, wheels out a small covered cart.  “For example, I know about your deal.  The terms.  Your time is almost up.”

“So let me out.  I’ve still got time.”

“Time to run, maybe.  But to finish the job?  No.” he shakes his head as he unrolls the cover to reveal a collection of tools, medical instruments, and other devices.  “Do you know the best part about being an independent contractor is that I get paid no matter what?  Dead or alive, you’re worth something to someone.  That’s quite an accomplishment.  You should be proud of yourself.”

“I can pay.”

He examines a small field cauterizer.  “I know.”

“No, I mean whatever you’re being paid?  I can match it.  Double it.”   

Azazel chuckles. “That would be impressive if it were true.”  

“It’s true.  I have resources.  Hidden assets.  Let me go and--”

“Tell me about John Winchester.”

She huffs out an indignant laugh.  “If you know about the deal, I shouldn’t need to.”  

“Humor me,” he says, before letting his eyes drift down to the cart.  “Unless you prefer--”

“I was positioning him for capture,” she says quickly.  “He’s got a surprising number of enemies for someone who isn’t in politics.  My broker was looking to make the most of it.  He said if I arranged it right, my debt would be paid.”  

“Go on.”

“I found some work in his field I needed done.  Deliveries.  Private bounties.  Things that would benefit my constituents, of course,” she adds, sourly.  “I was building a working relationship so I’d have his confidence.”

“And?”

“And he skipped out on me.  No warning.”

“You underestimated him.”

“Are you joking?” she says, incredulous.  “I’m a career politician. There was no reason for him to run, nothing to suspect.  The trap wasn’t even set.  Our dealings were, at least within certain parameters, entirely legitimate.”  

Azazel snorts.  

“However, I did my due diligence.  When he disappeared, I looked into it.”

“And?”

“And he did two things before he vanished.  He set up a series of drops that would ensure that his son came into possession of a small parcel, and he visited the [Alderaan System](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Alderaan_system).”

“Alderaan?” Azazel frowns.  “Why would he go there?”

She shakes her head.  “That’s what I was hoping to find out when Dean and his brother broke into my apartments.  At least, I assume that was his brother.”

“Assume?”  

“He was quite good at hiding his tracks, but he matched the description.”

Azazel considers, wonders how much and how badly he’s been underestimating Sam Winchester.  It makes sense that Sam would be the one who pulled Dean out of Alistair and Meg’s interrogation chamber.  After all, who but his own brother would care what happened to Dean Winchester?

“What was in the parcel?”

She shakes her head.  “It’s not documented.  It was already sealed when the first courier received it.”  

With some reluctance, Azazel retrieves the cover for his cart and returns it to its storage compartment.  When he closes the cabinet, he notices that Talbot is standing close to the plexi, waiting for him.

“I’ve told you what you asked,” she says, and for all of her posturing, he can practically smell the fear on her.  “Shall we talk terms?”

“Terms?”

“For my release.”

“Your release?”  Azazel gives her a curious look.  “Senator, why would I release you when I can use you as bait?”

 

# # # 

 

The corridors of the  _ Chevelle  _ are quiet save for the ambient hum of a functioning starship.  They’ve been underway long enough that Jo is settled in her berth while Dean remains in the cockpit.  

Castiel can’t sleep.  He can’t even be still.  He’s been pacing the distance between the hold and the mess for almost an hour trying to get a handle on his anxiety, to no avail.  

It takes him three tries to make it to the cockpit.  He taps at the door frame, and wills himself to speak.  

“Dean?  Do you have a moment?”  

Dean glances up from his datapad, turns slightly in the pilot’s seat.  “Yeah, what’s up?”

“I wanted to discuss payment.”  He licks his lips, sits down in the empty copilot’s seat.  “When we get to Takodana, I can--”

“Whoa, hold up,” Dean says, shaking his head, eyebrows furrowed.  “Payment for what?”

“This.”  He gestures at the console.  

“Hey, the ship ain’t ours.  Bobby’s gonna want her back in one piece.”  

“That’s not what I meant.”

“So what, you want to pay me?  Like a fare?”

“Once we get to Takodana, I’ll be happy to transfer the credits.  Just let me know what I owe you, and--”

“I don’t want your damn credits,” Dean snaps, and Castiel freezes.

_ There’s an escape pod, but Dean knows where it is.  Is he faster than me?  The airlock is closer.  I could jump-- _

Dean reaches out.  “Cas?”

“No!”  He jerks away and extends a hand, sending Dean flying.  He slams into the far wall of the cockpit, clutching at his throat, eyes wide.

“I’m finished running,” Castiel says as he advances on Dean, prying into his mind to search the seeds of betrayal.  Bad intentions, buyers, whatever it is, this time the punishment will fit the crime.  “I won’t be used again.  I won’t --”

_ Confusion.  Fear.  Hurt.   _

Castiel recoils, horrified.  Dean drops to the ground, gasping.  

“I take it back, man.  Pay whatever you want.  Go nuts.”

“Dean, I--”  He drops to his knees beside Dean.  “I thought--”

“That what?  I’d look awesome as wall-hanging?”  Dean rasps as he lets his head rest against the cockpit wall.  “Because I gotta tell you, your interior design aesthetic is...not awesome.”

“You didn’t want money.  I thought--”  Castiel looks away.  “I’m sorry.  I’ll understand if--” 

“I’m not kicking you off the ship, Cas.  Or ditching you on Takodana.  You saved me,  _ and _ my brother,  _ and  _ my ship.  But man, you’re gonna need to walk me through whatever’s going on here. Because breathing?  That ain’t optional.”

Castiel pauses, then pulls his loose overshirt off.  He slides the short sleeve of his tactical shirt up over his shoulder to reveal the faint outlines of a scar.  Dean hesitates for a moment before running his fingers over the skin.  

“Is that--”

“A brand from a [Zygerrian](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Zygerrian) syndicate.  Or what’s left of it.”

Understanding dawns on Dean’s face.  “You were a slave.”

“I was very young when the slavers bought me.”  Castiel says, eyes fixed on nothing in particular.  “I was the engine boy, because I was small enough to crawl into tight places to replace components, and could see in spaces my owners couldn’t.  I never saw anyone other than the engineer and her crew.  They kept me shackled in a storage area when I wasn’t working, and my collar never left my neck.  Before I escaped, I’m not even sure I remembered what the outside of a ship looked like.  The open sky alone was...”  He shakes his head.  

“How long?”

“Years?  Probably no more than three or four, but long enough that the engineer was trying to stunt my growth by shorting my rations.  I expect I’d have had another year or two before being sold again, or repurposed.  Other crews had begun showing an interest in me.”  He smiles, but it’s bitter.  “The eyes.  They’re useful.”  

“How’d you get out?”  

“I had a small cache under one of the hyperdrive assemblies.  I’d kept trinkets -- bits of wire, broken tools, and so on -- and after years learning to repair engines by rote, I was far from unskilled.  I waited until we made planetfall, used a power cell to burn out my collar, and then climbed out through a ventilation shaft.”

“Let me guess: Takodana?”

“Takodana.”  

Dean shakes his head.  “Hell of a place to escape.”

Castiel shrugs.  “Dangerous, yes, but also a surprisingly good place for a runaway slave to find someone willing to take him in.”

“That’s why you have to go,” Dean says, understanding.  “Takodana’s home.”  

“Exactly.”  Castiel pulls the loose shirt back on.  “And also why I jumped to conclusions.  Being on a ship is...difficult for me.  With everything that’s happened--”  

“You freaked out,” Dean says with a tenderness Castiel knows he doesn't deserve.  

He looks down at his hands.  “I almost killed you.”

“Well, night ain’t over yet,” Dean says.  He stands up, extends a hand.  “Want to go spar in the hold?  I’m still not getting the transitions on those knife forms you showed me.”  

Castiel blinks, nods, and takes Dean’s hand.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mary Campbell is more important than her sons could ever have imagined.

**Then: 34 Years Ago, Espirion, shortly after the Battle of Esperion**

Mary Campbell debarks her family’s freighter, whooping with glee as she joins the joyful throng of fighters and survivors.  Streaks of light zip across the eastern sky as fragments of the broken [Star Destroyer](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Star_Destroyer) burn up in the atmosphere.  

The Empire thought they could hunt the children of Alderaan down like animals.  Tonight, they learned differently.  

“Don’t go too far,” her mother calls out, but Mary is already gone, thrilled to be among her people and proud to have played a role in their victory against the Empire.  It’s a hell of a victory: not just again the Imperial pogrom, but the establishment of a home for those who want it, here on [Espirion](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Espirion).  

(Not that she expects to enjoy it.  Even if she could convince her parents to settle here, bounty hunting wasn’t a respectable profession on Alderaan before it was destroyed.  War has returned to their culture, but she can’t imagine those seeking to preserve Alderaanian culture in diaspora will approve of her family’s business.)

She discards the thought in favor of wine and a game of sabacc.  Her troubles will be there in the morning.  Tonight is for joy.

 

# # #

 

**Now: Bobby Singer’s home, Agamar**

Sam doesn’t have a lot of good to say about Senator Talbot, but he’ll give her this: she’s good at covering her tracks.  Even in her personal files, she’s made every effort to preserve both privacy and deniability.  Still, with Bobby’s help, he is able to establish certain patterns and code phrases.  He works backwards, newest entries to older ones, checking his work on recent entries against the Senator’s raw, less-practiced ones.  

It’s a lot of material.  Years of entries, some oblique, some to be taken at face value.  He doesn’t so much throw himself into the work as he practically drowns in it, long sessions of work punctuated mostly by Bobby’s insistence that he eat -- “As long as you’re under my roof, you’re eating three squares a day, boy” -- and his own exhaustion.  

Dimly, he’s aware that it’s not about the work.  It’s not about Dean, or his dad.  It’s not even about him, exactly.  He doesn’t let himself examine those thoughts.  He just touches the ring that hangs around his neck and moves on.   

 

# # #

 

So a truth about revelry: it doesn’t stop sore losers from being sore losers.  It’s hard to feel guilty when the sore loser in question is a fairly well-established merchant who won’t need the credits, but --

Mary ducks around a blind corner and collides with a petite woman clad in white robes, her hair braided and pinned into an elaborate hairstyle.  

Several things happen: a well-dressed [Alder-Esperion](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Alder-Espirion) man shouts; a tall, blonde woman grabs Mary by the jacket; and Princess [Leia Organa](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Leia_Organa) nearly lands on her ass.

“[Evaan](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Evaan_Verlaine), stop.”

“Princess, after everything, I won’t let some assassin--”

“I said stop.  Look at her.  She’s one of us.”  

The blonde woman lets her go.  Mary straightens herself up and adjusts her jacket.  And then...well, by then it occurs to her that this is her  _ Princess.   _ She swallows, eyes wide, and drops to one knee.  “Highness.  I didn’t--”  

“Forgiven.”  Leia reaches down, coaxes her to her feet, and conducts her to the more private garden that she and her entourage had been moving toward. “What’s your name?”

“Mary Campbell.”

“Did you fight today?”  

She nods.  “My parents’ ship is well-prepared for a fight.  It’s no [Espirion Multi](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Espirion_Multi) _ , _ ” she says, eyes flicking over to the Alder-Espirion watching the exchange with interest, “but it gives as good as it gets.”

“I’ll bet it does,” Leia says.  “Be proud.  Thanks to your bravery, you’ve got a home now.”  

 

# # # 

 

Bobby’s not sure he’d have ever called John Winchester a friend.  A compatriot, sure.  An ally.  A contact, a resource...John was a lot of things.  But the man didn’t really have friends.  

Sam though...well, the kid ain’t blood, but as far as Bobby’s concerned that quit mattering a long time ago.  The boy’s on the brink, and hell if he knows what’ll keep him from going over that cliff like his father did.

He switches out a fresh cup of caf for the empty one on the table next to Sam’s notes.  “You find anything yet?”

“Actually, yeah,” Sam says, picking up the mug without even looking at it, then blinking surprise when the liquid inside is hot.  

“And?”

Sam nods, points his notes.  “A lot of the coded stuff only goes back about nine or so years.  She’s kind of oblique in some older entries, but it seems like nine, ten years is the cut-off.  It’s also when things really started working out for her so far as her political career goes.”

“Huh,” Bobby says, brow furrowed under the bill of his cap.  “Think it’s a coincidence?”

Sam huffs, shakes his head.  “Hell no.  Whatever happened?  Her ambitions started getting realized overnight.”

“But there was a cost?”

“Yeah.  She got power, but it didn’t come free.  Whatever influence she gained was free game for whoever was pulling the strings.  It wasn’t constant, but she hated it.  There were whole legislative sessions that she had to derail her own initiatives.  Which is -- I think -- where Dad comes in.”

“She hired him to hunt down her keepers?”

Sam shakes his head.  “No.  I think she was trying to buy her way out of the deal.”

 

# # # 

 

Mary’s not versed enough in Alderaanian courtesies to know exactly where drunkenly confessing family woes to one’s sole surviving Princess rates in terms of inappropriate behavior, but she suspects it’s shockingly high. 

“And the worst part is that I’m never going to fit in here, because I’m not a scholar.  I don’t sing.  I don’t paint.  I fight.  I’m a hunter.  A soldier.  That’s all I’ll ever be good for,” she finishes, surprised that none of them have stopped her yet.  “And it doesn’t matter, because my parents--”

“Want you to carry on the family business,” Leia supplies, nodding gravely.

“Yeah.”

“Highness, if I may,” the broad Alder-Espirion says to Leia, then turns to face Mary.  “My name is [Beon Beonel](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Beon_Beonel).  I think I may have a possible solution to your troubles.”  

 

# # #

 

“Buy her way out?  With your dad?  Sam, your dad’s a pain in the ass for a lot of people, but I’m not sure he’s that important.”

“That’s what I thought, too,” he says, sitting back in his chair.  “But then I found this.”  

Bobby squints at the screen.  There are no names used, no locations, but...  “Well, I’ll be damned.  She knew your daddy was missing before Dean did.”

“And went looking for him.  Tracked him long enough to know that he sent Dean the datapad, but also tracked him here--”  

Sam taps his datapad, and a holographic map appears in the air above the table.  

“--to [the Graveyard](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/The_Graveyard).”

“The Graveyard?”  Bobby balks.  “What the hell was he doing out in the Alderaan system?”

Sam shakes his head.  “No clue.  But how much do you want to bet it’s got something to do with Dean getting snagged by those mercs on Coruscant?”

 

# # #

 

“Nice bag,” her father says as he steps into the corridor between Mary and the ship’s exit.  “Now go back to your cabin and unpack it.”  

“No.”  

“Mary, we are not going to have this argument again.  You’re a hunter, and your mother and I need you on this ship.”  

“Yeah, well--”  she starts, but is interrupted by the sound of two pairs of boots.  She looks up in time to see Evaan, accompanied by another, dark-haired woman in an Alliance pilot’s jacket ascend the boarding ramp.

“Samuel Campbell?  My name is Evaan Verlaine.  I’m here to inform you that your daughter has been selected to assist the Alliance with a critical mission.”

“Like hell she has.  Get off my ship.”

Mary wonders, idly, if Alliance pilots carry holo recorders.  The look of shock on Evaan’s face is memorable on its own, but the pilot looks like she’s been slapped in the face with a [fur-bearing trout](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Fur-bearing_trout).

“Mr. Campbell, I’m afraid I’m going to have to order you to stand aside.”

“Oh?  On whose damn authority?”

Evaan smiles as Princess Leia Organa joins them on the boarding ramp.

“Mine, Mr. Campbell.”  

 

# # # 

 

The words are hardly out of Sam’s mouth before Bobby’s eyes go wide.  He turns to his library, starts rooting through binders full of old flimsi.

“Bobby, what’s wrong?”

“There was a wild rumor going around at one point during the war that the Rebel Alliance had a secret super-weapon on a par with the [Death Star](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Death_Star).  Never credited it much, what with the fact that the Rebels never built anything on that scale, couldn’t afford it even if they were inclined.”

“But?”

“Some things you don’t build.  Some things you find.”  Bobby pulls a book -- an actual, paper book -- from the shelf.  He lays it on the table and leafs through it, hands gentle on the brittle pages.   “And sometimes, you find a thing and dig a whole new hole to make sure it can’t be found again.”

 

# # #

 

“So why doesn’t the Alliance just destroy it?”

“The simplest answer is the Alliance must focus on the Empire instead of other threats,” he tells her.  “Most have never heard of the Spear.  Those who have believe it to be long lost or destroyed, if it existed at all.”

“And the complicated answer?”  

“The Spear is as intelligent as it is ancient.  Even if we had the resources available to destroy it, there’s always the risk that its influence would be felt.  It might not recognize its master without the key, but there’s a possibility it might be willing to improvise.  All living things wish, on some level, to survive.”

“It’s  _ alive _ ?!”

“Not in the natural sense, but the ancient [Sith](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Sith) were...inventive.  Likewise, destroying the key puts us in a precarious position, as the lore implies that to truly neutralize it, one must also be in control of it.  Therefore, the wisest course would be to conceal both the Spear and its key.  This way, we retain the resources we need to complete the work when the time comes, as well as the means to take control if someone should somehow awaken the Spear on their own.”

“And my mission is to keep the key safe.”

“Precisely.  Establish a home.  A family, if you like.  Be ordinary.”  

“Where?”

Beonel smiles.  “Unless you have a strong objection, Sullust.”

“Sullust?  But the Empire--”

“Has a presence, yes.  But they also believe that the Alderaanian presence has been evacuated.  There will be nothing to connect you with the Alliance or the Alderaanian diaspora.  For all intents and purposes, you’ll be native-born, looking for a fresh start in a new city.”

“I’ll have no Alliance support.”

“To preserve the facade, I’m afraid contact would be limited at best.”  Beonel pauses.  “We could consider other options, but--”

“Sullust is fine,” she says with a courage and resolve she doesn’t fully feel.  “For me, and for the Alliance.  And for Alderaan.”

 

# # #

 

“The Spear of Destiny?”  Sam says, frowning at the page in front of him.  “The Rebels hid a spear?”

“Not a spear,” Bobby says, turning the page.  “A ship.  Hell, more than a ship.  An ancient Sith artifact.  Massively dangerous, intelligent: darkness with hyperdrive.”    

“Why would the Rebels want a Sith artifact?”

“To keep it out of Imperial hands, for a start.  Best guess?  Someone found it by accident, realized what it was, and got rid of it before Command could decide to try using it.”

“You think the Rebels would have used a  _ Sith artifact _ ?”  Sam sputters.  “Senator Organa--”

“Organa didn’t have a hell of a lot of influence during the war,” Bobby says.  “At least not right away.  Command saw her as a symbolic asset, not a leader.”  

“So they took it out of circulation as soon as they could,” Sam says.  “So what, they hid the ship somewhere?  Destroyed it?”

“I doubt they did anything with the Spear itself.  More likely they just hid the keys.”

 

# # # 

 

Mary carries her bag up the steps to her new flat.  She’s gotten lost twice on her way here -- once on the way from the spaceport to the rental office, then again on her way here.  Fulluusub is a warren of tunnels and huge caverns.  

A pair of Sullustans wave at her, and she waves back.  At least the neighbors are friendly.  She keys in her passcode and pushes the door open.

The flat is efficient and sparsely furnished: a main living space with a low couch, a small adjoining bedroom, a ‘fresher, and a kitchenette.  The walls, floor, and ceiling all have the same odd mineral texture.  

She’s got enough credits to pay for food and shelter while she looks for work, three changes of clothes, her datapad, a holdout blaster, and the most dangerous necklace in the galaxy.  

Mary closes the door to her flat, then leans against it, laughing.

 

# # # 

 

“So what’s all this got to do with Dad?”  

“It’s not your daddy I’m worried about,” Bobby says, sitting down at the table.  “It’s your mom.”

Sam balks.  “My mom?  Bobby, she’s been dead for years.”

Bobby sighs.  “Before your brother left, he told me that those mercs who interrogated him on Coruscant cared about two things: your mom and a spear.  If I'm right someone thinks she had the keys and is looking to collect.”

“That doesn't make any sense.  Mom didn't have any connections to the Rebellion.”

“That’s what I thought too, but while you’ve been combing Senator Talbot’s data for clues, I did some research of my own.”  He slides his datapad across the table to Sam.  “Your mom ain’t from Sullust.  She’s from Alderaan.”

Sam blinks at the birth record.  “It’s a big galaxy, Bobby.  There could be a million Mary Campbells out there.”

“Yeah, but this one’s paper trail from Alderaan doesn’t pick up on Espirion.  Other than a couple of forged documents, your mom’s paper trail on Sullust doesn’t start until after the Alliance stopped the Imperial pogrom.”

“Okay, fine. Let’s assume Mom’s from Alderaan.  So what?”

“You said it yourself.  If Organa got wind that the Alliance had the keys to the Spear--”

“She’d get rid of them.”  Sam frowns.  “Hide them until they had the resources to take care of it.”

“Republic’s still pretty young, Sam.  The Empire and its sympathizers didn’t just quit existing when the Alliance blew up that second Death Star.  Hell, the First Order’s a prime example of just how fragile the damn peace is.  And if your mom was at the Battle of Espirion -- which is pretty damn likely, given that Organa was gathering up refugees to resettle -- she might’ve been in the right place at the right time to end up with ‘em.”

“That’s still a lot of maybe.”  

“You’ve got a better explanation?”

“No, but even if she had the keys, she’s been dead for years.  For all I know they're the reason she's dead.”

"Given that we've still got a New Republic, I'm guessing that Zabrak your daddy's been hunting all these years didn't know she had 'em."  Bobby sits back in his seat.  “Being a Rebel sympathizer or from Alderaan would have been enough to make your mom a target.  Sullust wasn’t exactly what you’d call politically stable back then.  Hell, it still ain’t.  The whole damn planet’s been treated like a grav-ball for decades."

Sam sighs.  “So what now?”

“Back to square one,” Bobby says.  “If we’re gonna find your dad, our best bet is finding Senator Talbot, or at least whoever’s got her leash.”

He’s about to ask how they're supposed to manage that when his datapad chirps.  Not a message, but an interstellar comm transmission.  The sort of thing he and Dean don’t usually use, since they happen on frequencies they usually can’t afford.  Surprised, he reaches over to open the channel.  

“Hello?”

“Sam?”  

The voice is thready, distorted by the challenges of compressing and transmitting data over massive distances via hyperspace relays, but he’d recognize it anywhere.

“Sam?  Hello?  Are you there?  Can you hear me?”

He tries to speak, fails, swallows.  Manages to croak out one word:

“Jess?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah. Jess is back. :D
> 
> If you're interested in background on the Imperial pogrom against survivors of Alderaan, check out the [Star Wars: Princess Leia](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Star_Wars:_Princess_Leia) comic miniseries. It's pretty good, and available as a collected ebook as well as print format.
> 
> Also, just a quick explanation about how I'm handling communication technologies (paraphrased/compiled from various Wookieepedia entries): 
> 
> \- Remember that we're dealing with a whole galaxy here, so the distances people are traveling/communicating are literally astronomical.  
> \- Real-time communication is possible in Star Wars canon -- we see it in the films -- via comlinks (local/planetside), subspace radio (within system/nearby systems), and Holonet (theoretically galaxy-wide, patchy as you get to the Outer Rim).   
> \- The only people with subspace systems are going to be government/military, corporate, or rich; individuals would purchase comm time from local networks.  
> \- Subspace can theoretically go long distances if the connection is negotiated among multiple local networks. Which, again, expensive.  
> \- You can do long-distance subspace messages without sending them in real time, but that's less reliable than Holonet.  
> \- HoloNet can do near-instantaneous, but isn't universally available once you get out of the Mid-Rim. Holonet messages sent to those locales would bump to subspace transmission for the rest of their journey.   
> \- Sam and Dean don't have a Holonet transmitter/receiver on the Impala, but they've got subspace capability, and their datapads are equipped to connect to Holonet when/where available.   
> \- The call from Jess would have come via a combo of Holonet and subspace, paid on the sender's end. If I were being super realistic I could have included delay in the conversation, but that struck me as cumbersome, so fuck it.
> 
> So yeah. Communications are slow/not always available, particularly while they're traveling in hyperspace. The equipment theoretically exists for them to do a lot of things like we'd see in the films, but for now it's a little bit like 1995. ;)


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which all good things come at a price.

_ Jess. _

“I thought...how are… No, wait.   _ Where _ are you?”

“[Andara](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Andara).  There’s an emergency hostel in Giquaan.  One of my professors suggested the gallery, and I had a few days off, and…”  She trails off, the strain evident in her voice even over the tenuous connection.  “Where are you?”

“Uh.  Agamar, actually.”

“Agamar?!  Why are you on  _ Agamar _ ?” she asks, audibly stunned.  “You were going to Coruscant!”

“Long story,” he says.  “Can you get here?”

“I wish.  I had to sell some things just to get to Giquaan.  My bank, it’s--” 

“A mess,” Sam says, burying his face in his hands.  Of course his and Jess’ assets would be in limbo, given the chaos.  “Damn it.”

“Anyway, most pilots aren’t taking refugees without hard currency, or some kind of barter.  Parts, [mythra](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Mythra)…”

“Right.”  He sighs and glares at the  _ Impala _ through the window, cursing the fact that the most obvious solution to this problem has gaping holes in the hull plate.  “Dean’s on his way to Takodana.  That’s not too far from Andara.”

“How long?”

“Maybe a few days?”  

They exchange details: communication codes, the hostel’s location, and so on.  

“I’ll see you soon, Jess.  I love you.”

“Love you too, Sam.”

Sam drops the datapad, breathes out. Jess is alive, stranded, but alive. He can work with that. He reaches up, taps her ring, and for the first time in days, doesn’t feel the tears well up.

 

# # # 

 

In the shadowed back room of his office, Crowley smiles.  Guthrie, his body man, keeps a blaster aimed at Jessica’s temple as Crowley terminates the call.  

“There now.  That wasn’t such a chore, was it, pet?”

 

# # # 

 

Cas groans as he slides into the co-pilot’s seat and squeezes a mouthful of paste from a ration pack into his mouth.  The addition of Jo to the ship has nearly doubled his training regimen to include sparring with her as well as Dean. While he’s come to enjoy the challenge, he spends much of  his day sweaty, achy, and pleasantly exhausted.  

He swallows the paste with a grimace.  The flavor is a sickly blend of the worst parts of sweet and savory, and it’s persistent.  Also, the paste sticks to the roof of his mouth like [chooca nut](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Chooca_nut) butter.

“I can’t believe you’re eating that stuff,” Jo says, wrinkling her nose from her place at the helm.  “Dean won’t even eat that.”

“I’ve had worse.”

“Yeah, me too.  Doesn’t mean I’m gonna choke down that [poodoo](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Bantha_fodder).”

“Hey, be nice,” Dean says as he puts a hand on Castiel’s shoulder.  “Cas wants to leave the good stuff for us, that’s his choice.”

“As if there’s any good stuff on this bucket of bolts,” she gripes, reaching up to flip a couple of switches.  

“Well, the next time Bobby lends us his ship, out of the kindness of his heart with no warning, I’ll tell him to make a grocery run first,” Dean says.  

Castiel licks his lips.  Dean’s hand is still on his shoulder.  

It’s ridiculous.  He and Dean spend at least an hour training together, more most days, in close physical contact, and have done since that first morning in the  _ Impala _ ’s hold.   But casual contact?  That’s new, and Castiel can’t not notice everything about it: the flat of Dean’s palm resting on his shoulder, the curve of his fingers along his clavicle, the way his thumb rests just slightly back.   

He glances up at Dean’s face, but Dean’s eyes are on Jo.  He swallows and follows suit.

Dean leans in a little.  “How much further until Takodana?”

Jo squints at the console.  “Three days on the outside.  I was hoping we could shave a little off, but Bobby’s navicomp isn’t even close to being on a par with B4-8Y.  For a guy with a whole scrapyard at his disposal, you’d think he’d make some upgrades already.”

“Last time I suggested that, he told me where I could stick my upgrades,” Dean says with a yawn.  “Alright.  I’m gonna clean up, maybe catch some winks.”  

“Aw, our princess needs his beauty sleep,” Jo teases.  

“Hey, take one look at me and tell me it’s not working.”  When she says nothing, he nudges Castiel’s shoulder.  “Cas?  Back me up here.”

Castiel feigns deep concentration.  “You must sleep a great deal.”

Jo snickers.  Dean gives him a friendly slap on the back, then turns back toward the corridor.  

“So,” Jo says, glancing Castiel’s way.  “You ever play [pazaak](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Pazaak)?”

He shakes his head.  “I’ve never had occasion, no.”

She grins wide and pulls a deck from her jacket.  “Well, then.  Time to learn.”

 

# # # 

 

Sam walks through the scrapyard, pausing now and again to inspect a familiar dead vehicle, or explore a newer acquisition.  He sees the old Walker that he and Dean used to play in as kids, and smiles.  

Maybe Bobby was right.  Maybe he  _ does  _ need to take a break.

Another twelve hours, give or take, and Dean should know to make a detour to Andarra on the way back.  That means thirty or so hours until he’s likely to hear anything back, assuming Dean replies right away instead of waiting until they leave Takodana.  Or when they arrive on Andarra.  Or when they  _ leave _ Andara.

Just thinking about it makes him tense.  He’d gotten used to fast communications in the Core.  He misses being able to use his commlink for quick data transfers or calls to his friends.  Waiting like this is unnatural, frustrating.   

He’s not sure if it’s a payment issue, a network issue, or just that refugee authorities aren’t generally in the business of spending significant resources on their charges, but he’s not been able to get ahold of Jess again.  He keeps pulling up his message log to make sure the transmission was actually received, that he sent another on to Dean, that this isn’t a dream.  

He worries about the hostel, and what the conditions are like.  He wonders if they’re better or worse than what Bobby’s got here on Agamar, or his life aboard the Impala.  Being poor, being  _ transient _ ...Jessica’s never done that.  

He hasn’t exactly been an open book to her about his life before university.  Before, it just seemed the right way to blend in.  There wasn’t much he could do about being comparatively poor and living on student work and his stipend, but he’d been careful to make sure nobody took him for some yokel from the Outer Rim or a spacer.  

Maybe he should send Dean another message, tell him to drop her off somewhere nice Mid-Rim with enough credits to get by for a little while.  Dean could tell her to forget his brother.  It would be a better life.

He’s still staring at the Walker when he hears boots in the gravel.  Bobby.  

“Well, I’ll give you this.  You’re predictable,” Bobby says, smiling.  “Guess it’s a good thing I never sold that thing.”

“You ever get any offers?”

“Nah.”  Bobby leans against a battered craft.  “So which is it?  Dean, Bela, or Jess?”

Sam lowers his eyes.  “Jess.  She’s not...she grew up in the Core.  She’s never known anything else.”

“And you’re worried she’ll take one look at this palace,” Bobby gestures at the salvage yard, “and ditch.”

“Kinda, yeah.”

Bobby shrugs.  “Well, I ain’t gonna say it won’t happen.”

“Great,” he huffs.  “Thanks.”

“Let me finish.”

“Sorry.”

“Yeah, well.  As I was saying, she might take one look at all this and decide this ain’t the life for her.  It’s possible. Or, if she’s half as special as you think she is, she’ll take one look and realize that you’re still you, even out here on the edge of the galaxy.  You invited her here, so you owe her a chance to try it on.”

“I just wish I could get this part over with.”  Sam sighs.  “The waiting?  It’s torture.”

“Yeah, nothing I can say’ll speed that up.”  Bobby pulls the flask from his pocket and takes a sip before he passes it to Sam.  “But as long as we’re out here, we might as well make an afternoon of it."

 

# # # 

 

Dean dreams of torture. 

Where the pain comes from -- the drugs, the inducer, or Alistair himself -- stopped mattering an eternity ago.  What matters is that there’s nothing else.  If he had a body once, or a sense of time, or a will to escape or survive, it has been reforged into agony.  

“It hurts to be reborn, doesn’t it Dean?” Alastair’s words dig into his brain and nest there, poisoned barbs lodged into helpless meat.  “But you know how make it stop.”

When Alistair presses the hilt instead of the blade of the knife into Dean’s palm, Dean doesn’t hesitate.

He’s fast now.  Faster than he’s ever been, and brutal.  It’s just a simple knife, but he drives it through flesh and bone and cartilage like they’re nothing at all.  It’s easy.  Pleasurable.  

The metal rings and sings in his gore-slicked hand, and the song fills him.  Soothes him.  

The song is beautiful, even as he drives the blade into his brother’s throat.  

 

# # #

 

Privacy on a ship like the  _ Chevelle _ is a delicate thing.  

There is room for a certain modicum of solitude, but the quarters are shared, and the only hatches outside of the engine section are emergency fire breaks.  True privacy is nearly impossible.

It helps that neither Dean nor Jo are willing to leave the cockpit unattended for longer than it takes to go to the ‘fresher, or to make a fresh cup of caf.  They’re all still on different solar cycles, so they’re eating and sleeping on different schedules.

Castiel lays claim to the gaps.  He may not have a space of his own, but he can meditate in his bunk while one of them sleeps.  

Peace comes more easily now.  Since Coruscant, he’s come to trust Dean more than he thought possible.  Confessing his past no doubt helped, as well as their shared sparring sessions, and the occasional meal taken together.  He and Dean are familiar in ways that go beyond a mission or a fare, and that’s...new.  Pleasant, even.   

(He chides himself, a little, for the way meeting Dean’s eyes can make his breath catch, or the way sparring sometimes leaves him craving even more contact.  This isn’t the first time he’s been infatuated, but he’s smart enough not to entertain even a harmless crush for very long.)

But yes, trust in his pilot (and his co-pilot, whose own past seems to mirror his own) has robbed the anxiety of its teeth.  When he sits on his bunk to meditate, the hum of the air scrubbers recedes almost as easily as the sound of the sea in his father’s garden.

He finds his still center, then eases his consciousness wider, growing more aware of the mutual connections to others.  The complexity of the web is staggering: knowing each grain of sand on an infinite beach would be whole orders of magnitude simpler.  Even thinking of it as a web limits him.  It’s a breathing thing, diffuse, a constant play of forces.  The play of the Force.  

Castiel rests in its unity.  Distantly he wonders why his meditation can’t always be this, why he has to be the endless novice whose talents send him where they will.  Why does he have to live like a boat lost at sea?  Is it a flaw in him?  The gaps in his knowledge?  He is a million bad habits and half-truths, bound together by good intentions and effort and --

He’s rocked, suddenly, by a wave of panic.  He loses his bearings entirely, gripped by the fear of another disaster -- another  _ genocide --  _ that he’s failed to prevent.  He barely hears the sound that startles him out of his meditation, leaving him disoriented.  

A stifled cry brings him to sharp attention.  

“Dean?” he asks softly as he gets to his feet.  

Castiel can make out his silhouette in the bottom bunk of the far niche.  His movements are jerky, fitful.  Castiel hurries to his side.

“Dean?  Dean,  _ wake up _ .”

 

# # # 

 

Dean jerks awake in a panic.  He digs his heels into his mattress and shoves himself back into the shadows until he hits something solid.  He can’t stop shaking.  Can’t look at his hands. Can’t stop.  He just wants to  _ stop. _

“Dean?”

His eyes lock on Cas.  Stupid, stupid Cas.  He doesn’t know what’s happening, what Dean has already done, will do.  “ _ Stay away _ .”  

“Alright,” Castiel says, holding his hands where Dean can see them.  “Are you--”

“I killed them.”  He pulls his knees up and wraps his arms around them, pulling them in tight.  “Bobby.  Jo.  Sam.  All of them.  I can’t stop, Cas.  I  _ can’t stop, and _ \--”

“Dean, breathe.  You’re safe.  Bobby and Sam are safe on Agamar.  Jo’s flying the ship.”

He swallows.  Blinks.   _ Breathes.   _

“Is it alright if I sit down?”  Castiel nods toward the other end of Dean’s bunk.  

“Yeah,” he says, nods.  Dean feels a pang of embarrassment at how much it comforts him to have Cas here with him.  He’s not some kid, or a spooked civvie out in space for the first time.  He doesn’t need damn kid gloves.  

And yet.  

“Do you have nightmares often?”  

“Define often,” he says, uncurling a bit to sit cross-legged.  “I don’t know.  Yeah, maybe.  I mean, since Coruscant, it’s been…”  He trails off, tries to figure out the words, gives up.  “But that’s normal, right?  Interrogation chems and all.  Was taking the edge off with some spice I had socked away, but that ran out a couple days ago.”

“Chem drop?”  Castiel frowns.  “That should have resolved itself by the time we got to Agamar at the latest.”  

“Great,” Dean huffs.  He tries to seem dismissive.  Judging by Castiel’s expression, it doesn’t work.  “So this is what, combat stress?”

“It’s possible.”  He licks his lips and moves closer, reaching out as if to touch, but stops short. “May I?”  

“Knock yourself out.”  

Castiel’s fingers brush lightly across his forehead, coming to rest along the edge of his face, pressing lightly as his temple.  “Just relax.”

He closes his eyes.  He can’t help but recoil when he feels Castiel join him in his skull, and he steels himself, waiting for the first shock of pain.

It doesn’t come.  Castiel’s touch is soft, safe, like being wrapped in soft, dark wings.   _ Oh. _  He nestles into them instinctively.  His guard never falls -- not completely -- but he doesn’t fight.    

“Stars above and below,” Cas whispers as he lowers his hand, breaking the connection.  “Dean, I’m so sorry.”

“What?”

“Alistair.  When you didn’t have the information he wanted, he...”

“Took me apart.  Yeah, I remember.”  It’s hard to tell where the real memories end and the echoes of his nightmares begin, but either way, he feels sick.  “So, what, I’m broken?  Am I gonna go nuts and start killing people?”  

“I don’t know.  I’ve never seen anything like this,” Castiel says, looking down at his hands.  “I may be able to help, but--”

“Awesome.  Let’s rip this [bacta patch](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Bacta_patch) off.”

“It’s not like changing a [carbonite insert](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Carbonite_insert) or adjusting the [alluvial damper](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Alluvial_damper), Dean,” Castiel says sharply.  “Alistair didn’t hold back.  Anything I do to help you will be just as invasive, and that’s even assuming I don’t do more harm than good.”

Dean rubs his face and sighs, lets his head fall back against the wall of his niche.  He likes Cas, trusts him more than he’d admit out loud, and he’s been carrying the guy’s stylus around since Hosnian fucking Prime for reasons he’s carefully avoided thinking about in depth.  Even so, total access to his brain pan?  

He can live with nightmares.  Has for most of his life.  But he’s not ready to turn into one.  

“Okay,” he says, sitting up.

“Okay?”  Castiel blinks, surprised.

“Whatever you gotta do, Cas.  I’m in.”

“You’re certain?”

“No.  But come on.  If my choices are letting that dick, Alistair, turn me into a monster and letting you poke around in my [sunfruit](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Sunfruit)?  Get peeling.”  

# # #

 

Castiel winces.  Peeling is...well, it’s more evocative of a worst case scenario than he likes.  

“Alright then.  Um.”  He shifts his position to face Dean more comfortably, and Dean does the same, scooting forward, legs crossed, hands in his lap.  

Castiel licks his lips, then presses the fingers of both hands against Dean’s temples.  “Try to relax.  This may be uncomfortable.”

“In that case, I can guarantee I’ve had worse.”

Castiel rolls his eyes, then begins to concentrate.  

 

# # # 

 

_ Still with me, Dean? _

A warm tingle of awareness, affirmative.  

_ Good, _ he thinks, but...Goddess, he is  _ not _ qualified to do this.  He should stop, tell Dean that there’s nothing he can do and to find someone else...

The tingle shifts.  Nervous reassurance.  A reminder of trust, and--

_ How is it even possible for you to convey sarcasm? _

Amusement.  Genuine.  Maybe a little smug.

_ In that case, I suppose that there’s no harm in trying what I’m about to do, given that you’ve clearly already lost your mind.   _

Castiel swallows his crisis of self-doubt; he can have it later, when it’s less likely to result in one of them falling into a permanent coma, and opens his awareness.  Not to the wider connections of the galaxy, but to Dean’s mind.  

As before, he takes pains to be gentle as he brushes along the surface of it, trying to get a clearer sense of where to begin.  Even so, he’s aware of the tension in Dean’s body as well as his mind.  

When he touches the first scar left by Alistair’s torture, Dean recoils -- in pain or fear, it’s difficult to tell.    

_ I’m sorry.  Should I stop? _

Bitter resignation.  

_ Dean, you don’t have to do this.  We can find another way.   _

Desperation.  A plea.  Fix this or end it, because…  

[The induced pain of a thousand deaths, blistering flesh and shattering bone layered over one another by expert hands as the air is crushed from his lungs.]   

[A life deferred, rife with heartbreak, vice, and anger.  Empty substitutes for the things that might have been.  Worthless and short, bound to end bloody.]  

[A boy, no older than ten or twelve, his hair loose and shaggy in the breeze, laughing and pointing at the Republic Day fireworks exploding over the skyline of Calun Muun.]

Castiel feels, distantly, tears on his face.  Or Dean’s.  It’s impossible to tell.  

_ I understand.   _

He steels himself and goes to work.  

 

# # # 

 

“Dean?”

He’s reluctant to lower his hands from Dean’s temples.  Their faces are close enough they’re sharing breath.  Dean’s eyes are closed, his features are soft, like he’s sleeping.  Castiel brushes his thumb across Dean’s cheekbone, and smiles when his eyes flutter open.  

“Cas?”

“Yeah,” he says.  His mouth feels dry.  He licks his lips.  “How do you feel?”

“Tired.”

“Yeah.” Castiel lowers his hands, though he aches in his bones to keep them where they are.  “Me too.”  

“Did it work?”

“I don’t know.  I think I was able to shift things somewhat.  It’s a start.”

The corners of Dean’s mouth tick up in a faint smile.  He adjusts his legs, then lays back on his bunk in an exhausted sprawl.  Castiel gives him a wan smile, starts to get up.  

Dean grasps his wrist.  “You said you were tired, right?”

“Exhausted, honestly.”

“Then stay.”  He tugs gently, and Castiel allows it, nestles in against him.  The berth is snug, but not impossibly so. Dean wraps an arm around his shoulders and closes his eyes.  


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a misunderstanding, a fond reunion, a powerful motivator, a thrown cushion, and a bit of good advice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I whine sometimes about how much longer this story is than I'd anticipated when I set out, and how I long for my porn to return from the war, but then I get to write chapters like this and everything is worth it.

“Well, damn.  I was gonna stage a mutiny, but looks like maybe blackmail is the way to go.”  

Dean groans and squints up at the green-tinged silhouette against the overhead light, Jo blocking the opening to his bunk.  It takes him a moment to register that he’s not alone in his bunk, and that he and Castiel are doing a damn good impression of a pair of [Naboo](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Naboo) octopi.

“Take a holo.  It’ll last longer.” he mumbles as he tries to untangle his limbs from the mass. “Cas?  You awake, buddy?”

As signs of life go, a low-pitched groan suffices.  

Jo crosses her arms and leans against the door frame.  “Was there drinking?  Because it looks like there was drinking.”

Dean ignores the question and focuses on propping himself up.  “How much longer until Takodana?”

“Three hours until we drop out of hyperspace.  Landing’s going to depend on which parts of the planet are welcoming visitors and which ones are shooting on sight.”

“Three hours?” Dean sputters.  “How long was I out?”

“Twelve, fifteen hours.  Seriously, what did you two get up to?”

“Not what you think.”  Dean rubs his face.  “Cas?  Thoughts?”

“Landing codes,” he mumbles as he rolls and buries his face into the pillow.  

“Care to elaborate there, big guy?”

“Mnh.”

Even Jo’s presence can’t damp the feeling of warm expansion in his chest.  Dean laughs and gently pries away his pillow.  “Come on, Cas.  Time to get up.  It’s Jo’s turn to sleep.”

Castiel groans again, and squints up at him.  “Jo has her own bunk.”

“So do you, but  _ apparently  _ Dean’s is nice this time of year,” Jo says.  “Plus, Dean’s gonna make you some caf and warm up a ration that doesn’t taste like poodoo.  Dean’s a  _ gentleman _ .”

Dean glares at Jo over his shoulder.  She smirks.  Castiel sits up with a groan and runs his fingers through his hair, which mostly fails to accomplish anything but making it stick up in different directions.

“There we go,” Dean says, encouraging Castiel toward the edge of the bunk as he stands to make room.  “Jo’s right.  Breakfast sounds awesome.”

“'Fresher first,” Cas mumbles.  He shuffles out of the niche.  

Jo barely waits until he’s out of earshot before giving Dean an incredulous look.  “ _ I can’t believe you banged the space witch!” _

“I did not  _ ‘bang the space witch.’” _  He gestures in the general direction of the 'fresher.  “Who, incidentally, has a  _ name _ .”     

“So, what, you just brought him to bed for a snuggle?  No big deal, just guys being dudes?”

He opens his mouth to reply, then closes it again as he tries to puzzle out how to respond to that.  The click of the 'fresher door saves him from having to reply, but results in both of their eyes being drawn immediately to Cas, who freezes mid-step.

“I’m sensing...awkwardness,” he says, blinking at both of them.  

“Let’s just go,” he says as he ushers Cas out of the sleeping quarters toward the galley.

 

# # #

 

He sips his caf absently while Dean does his best to make some kind of meal with what’s left of Bobby’s slim provisions.  Castiel wonders if Dean is always so focused on breakfast.  He suspects not.  Even without the Force at his disposal, Dean’s unease would be palpable.

It’s Dean who finally breaks the silence.  

“You always such a heavy sleeper?”

“No,” he says, and shakes his head.  “Sometimes.  Not when I’m traveling.”

Dean nods as he tinkers with the autochef.  “Same here.  Well, trade working for traveling, I guess.  Other than long hauls in hyperspace, hunting and sleeping don’t really mix.”  

“Boredom or exhaustion, no middle ground?”  Castiel runs his thumb over the edge of his cup.  “Sounds uncomfortably familiar.”

“That’s space for you.”  Dean brings two bowls of something that wants to be a sour noodle soup.  “So.  Uh.  Last night.  Jo thinks we, uh...”

Castiel raises his eyebrows.  “Oh.”  

“Yeah.”

“And you--”

“Told her we didn’t.”

“Right.”  He takes a deep breath and pointedly ignores the faint curls of disappointment in his gut.  “I’m sorry if I caused you any embarrassment.  I should have exercised more discretion, but--”

“Cas, we were exhausted.  We slept.  End of story.”  

He hesitates, swallows.  Nods.  “Right.”  

“Right.”  Dean looks down at his bowl.  “Awesome.”

They eat in silence.  His breakfast is a significant improvement over the rations he’s been eating for the better part of the journey, but he’s distracted.  The inside of his skull feels entirely too loud, littered with dissonant fragments of memory with no proper context because they’re Dean’s, not his.

(Now  _ there’s  _ a bantha in the room he’s not ready to address.)

And then there’s his mission (either going to course or deferred by circumstance, he isn’t certain), his worries about what he’ll find on Takodana, the stress of being on a ship in flight, the extent to which he’s become attracted to Dean despite his awareness of just how damn  _ foolish _ that is…

He’s never slept as well on a ship as he did in Dean’s bunk.  His general lack of experience fails to provide him any data about whether or not that should be expected, but his gut tells him that no, this is unique to Dean, here, now.  

He watches Dean eat, seemingly unperturbed. For the first time, Castiel thinks he understands the [Jedi Order’s insistence on celibacy](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Jedi_Code/Legends).   

“Is the dorsal turret functional?”

Dean blinks, frowns.  “Why?”

“I thought I might go meditate there before we make planetfall if that’s alright.”  

“Yeah, sure.”  There’s a hint of something -- Confusion?  Worry? -- but Dean doesn’t press.  “Knock yourself out.  Just remember to come down to the cockpit when we leave hyperspace.”

“Of course.”  He picks up his empty bowl and carries it to the autowash.  “Thank you for breakfast.”

Dean shrugs.  “Go.  Do your thing.”

Castiel goes.  Down the corridor.  Up the ladder.  Settles into the turret seat.  

“Shit,” he whispers, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms as he unspools, not into the cultivated sage he aims one day to be, but the terrible mess of a man he apparently is.  “ _ Shit.   _ Fuck.”

 

# # # 

 

The shanty town that sprang up near the remains of Maz Kanata’s castle is already buzzing with activity in the early morning light.  

The main village is a hodge-podge of scavenged field barracks, their factions’ crests long-since worn away or painted over, laid out in a rough rectangle.  The entrances face inward, creating a courtyard that houses a large, communal space.  A market has sprung up in the green, dozens of vendors hawking street food, groceries, basic necessities, and even a few luxuries.

Nearer to the shattered castle, the effort of sorting through the rubble is well underway, workers separating salvage from scrap.  Some work by hand, others with tools, still more with droids to do the heavy lifting while they give instruction.  Growing rows of workable stone line a freshly-cleared field, wood and metal stacked in open sheds.  What can’t be salvaged for building is picked over again for reuse, recycling, or disposal.  

“You want to take point, Cas?” Dean asks as the three of them descend the  _ Chevelle’s  _ ramp.  

“Take point?” Jo says, raising her eyebrows.  “Is this an op now?  Do I need more guns?”

Castiel chuckles lightly in spite of himself, and shakes his head as he steps past her.  “I doubt more guns would make a difference.  And there’s hardly any need, considering --”

“ _ CASTIEL.” _

A grin instantly breaks across his face as he spots Maz, already striding toward them, her goggles tucked up over her head.  He hops down off the edge of the ramp and dashes to meet her, dropping to his knees to pull her into a tight hug.

“It’s been too long,” he murmurs into her shoulder.  

“It has,” she replies.    

“It might have been longer if Gabriel hadn’t sent me a message about the attack,” he says, breaking the hug.   “I’m glad you’re alright, but I wish you’d called.”

She makes a face at him.  “I’m a pirate queen, Castiel.  The First Order doesn’t frighten me.  So I lose a castle.  They’ve already lost more.”

He blinks.  “I don’t understand.”

Maz smiles, pulls a datapad out of her pocket.  The air above it flickers as she adjusts the settings to display a holo of a planet -- no, not  _ quite  _ a planet any longer -- crumbling and then violently imploding before bursting into an impossible blaze of light.  

Castiel’s eyes go wide.  “What  _ is  _ that?”

She switches off the hologram.  “The Starkiller.  A weapon used by the First Order in an attempt to destroy the New Republic.  Gone now, thanks to the Resistance.”

“Things must be moving quickly if the Hosnian System has already been avenged,” he says, lowering his eyes to hide the barrage of emotions -- relief, horror, anger -- at the news.  

“There’s no avenging such a loss,” she says and squeezes his shoulder.  “And a [rathtar](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Rathtar) has many teeth.  War is coming.  But for now, perhaps the scales are better balanced.  Now, stand up. Your friends are coming.”  

He gets to his feet and brushes the dust from his knees.  “Maz, this is Jo Harvelle, and Dean--”

“Winchester.”  She says, goggles already in place, peering at him curiously.  “Your father did some work for me when you were a boy.”  

“Haven’t seen him lately, have you?” Dean asks, affecting casualness that Castiel can see through easily.  

“No.  But if you’re looking for him, I may be able to help.  Follow me.”  Maz turns back toward the village.

 

# # # 

 

Throne Sitri does not like to be the bearer of bad news.

She kneels, waits for Lucifer’s acknowledgement.  She doesn’t dare feel resentment at being made to wait.  Her Lord knows the minds of all who follow him, and the ache of cold is only a little pain in exchange for the honor of speaking to him face-to-face.

“Approach.”

She stands, cradles the small stack of flimsi in her hands as she climbs the steps toward Lucifer’s throne.  His eyes are blazing coals in the dark, following her.    

“My Lord.  Azazel has reported back.  John Winchester remains in the wind.”

“And the sons?”  

“The sons have gone to ground, it’s unclear exactly where.  The Outer Rim seems the most likely possibility, but no spaceports have record of any of the  _ Impala _ ’s known registration codes.”

“And Alistair’s efforts?”

“His reports are here.”  Sitri hands the flimsi to Lucifer and shudders when his fingers brush against hers.  “He believes Dean Winchester is alive, but he’s had little success pinpointing his location.  It’s possible he’s succumbed to the effects of interrogation, but until confirmation--”

“--we must assume he is in play.”

“Yes.”

Lucifer stretches and rises from his seat.  There’s something uncanny about his gait, and the silence of his bare feet as he walks.  He releases the flimsi from his grip.  Sitri watches, eyes wide, as it crumples as soon as it leaves his fingertips, smoldering before settling as fine ash on the metal grate.  

“Sitri, do you believe in destiny?”

“Yes, Lord,” she says in the most even voice she can muster.  Her body is still, her back rod-straight.  She dares not move -- she hardly dares to breathe -- as Lucifer glances back at her.  

“Interesting.”  He turns to face her.  Crosses his arms.  Reaches up with a hand to tap at his lips, as if contemplating the question.  “So if something were to happen to you, right now, no matter what it was, that would be destiny?”

“I--”  She hesitates.  “I think it would depend on what it was.”

“Let me guess: big things, destiny?  Little things are just...things?”  

“No ‘little things’ happen in your presence, Lord.”

Lucifer laughs and snaps his fingers, and the light in the throne room changes.  It takes her a moment realize that the light of the force shields -- the only thing that keeps atmo in Lucifer’s chamber -- have gone out.  She feels a draft as the air around her begins to drift out into open space.

“There is a key, Sitri, that belongs in my hands.  That key will unite the galaxy under our banner because dissent will mean death itself.  And yet, as far as I can tell, that key has been gathering dust in the hands of a drunk obsessive and his idiot children.  Now tell me again, Sitri: do you believe in destiny?”

“Y-yes, Lord.”

“And what’s your destiny, Throne Sitri?  To bring me what I ask for, or to stand there while I keep you alive just long enough for you to know what it’s like for your bodily fluids to boil out of your skin?”

She drops to her knees, shivering both from cold and terror.  “The key.  My destiny is to bring you the key.”

“Good.”  Another snap of fingers and the draft abates.  The force shields glow blue against the black of space.  “Go.”

Throne Sitri scrambles to her feet.  “Yes, Lord.”

 

# # # 

 

Maz gives them a little suite in a modified pop-up barracks adjacent to the one where she keeps her office and personal living space.  And then, she takes off with Cas. 

Jo gets it. They’re family, and sometimes family needs time to catch up without a couple of bounty hunters around to eavesdrop.  Dean, though...

She watches him pace through the open living area, which is reasonably well-furnished for a refugee camp.  It’s funny, she thinks, how closely Dean’s unease on Castiel’s turf resembles Cas’ on Dean’s.  Not that she’s going to mention it, but some things you just can’t help but notice.

“We should sleep on the ship,” he says, poking around at the shelves, the holo screen, and anything else in reach.

“That’s bad hospitality,” Jo reminds him.  “She’s big on that, I hear.  Creates a relationship.  Which, given that this is  _ Maz freaking Kanata _ , we should probably build on that.”

“We’ve got Cas,” Dean says as he finally --  _ finally --  _ slumps down on the sofa.  “We’ve got it covered.”

“Yeah, until he leaves.”

Dean doesn’t have an answer for that, and Jo wonders if maybe she shouldn’t have said it out loud.  

“Look, I get it.  Finding your dad costs credits, and we’re not making anything doing it.  Your ship’s fucked and we’re flying around in half of Bobby’s livelihood while he babysits your little brother.  You’re staring down empty pockets and a ton of favors and you don’t want to add another one to the pile.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“What, like Maz Kanata’s good to the people she likes?  That she’ll have enough smuggling gigs for us to make up for the loss you took getting booted out of the Hunter's Guild?” It’s an awkward topic, and maybe dirty sabacc bringing it into the conversation, but Jo learned a long time ago that she’s got to be the one to say things because Dean won’t.  

She walks around the couch and perches on the arm, facing Dean.  “Look, we’re here anyway.  We play nice for a couple of days while Cas does whatever he needs to do, and we leave with a beautiful new contact who likes us because we’re polite and because her nephew likes us.”

He rolls his eyes, but doesn’t argue the point.

“Speaking of Cas, you two--”

Dean groans, “Look, it’s not--”

“Any of my business?”

“I was going to say ‘not what you think,’ but that’s good too.”

“Yeah, fine,” she says, shifting her position so she can lean against the back of the couch.  “But if you’re  _ not  _ gonna bang the space witch, you mind if I give it a shot?  Because  _ damn _ .  I’m not made of wood, but I’m pretty sure his thighs are.”  

She winks and hops out of the way, narrowly avoiding the cushion Dean throws at her head.

 

# # # 

 

Maz pours two cups of shig.

“Gabriel’s been worried for you,” she says as she passes a cup to Castiel, then settles into her chair.  

“Gabriel always worries,” he says, holding his cup.  “Which is only fair, I suppose, given that I always seem to wind up in space, doing dangerous things in hazardous places with people who are likely to kill me.”

“The Force has an odd way of compelling us to confront those things we’d prefer to avoid, yes.”

He smiles in spite of himself.  “That it does.”

“So.  Dean Winchester.”

Castiel takes a deep breath, gathers his thoughts.

“Gabriel was taking me to help him with a job on Balmorra.  I’d just got home, but he insisted.  We were en route when I felt something.  More subtle than a disturbance, but urgent.  Almost a plea.  I had no idea what it meant, but I couldn’t shake the feeling I was needed.”

“So you had him change course.”

“Yes.  By the time we landed, I could feel--”  He shakes his head.  “We found Dean, but he’d already been tortured.  His mind was in tatters.  Gabriel wanted to leave him behind, but I couldn't.  We took him to a safe house instead.  I’m still not sure how he survived.”

“And his torturers?”

“Operatives, strong in the Force.”  

She nods.  “You felt responsible.”

“Yes, but it’s more than that.  They used a name: Lucifer.”

Maz grows very still.  “Does Gabriel know?”

“No,” he says.  “And I haven’t told our father either.  Not until I know more.  It’s possible it’s someone else. Regardless, this Lucifer seems to be searching for John Winchester, just as Dean is.  Based on Dean’s account, it seems likely that his family was in possession of an object that Lucifer wants.  That makes Dean’s search mine as well.”

“And Dean was amenable to this?”

“He was skeptical.”  Castiel stares at his cup.  “And then I stopped him flying into the Hosnian System while it burned.”

Maz puts her cup down and reaches across to touch Castiel’s hand.  “You felt the losses.”

“I felt billions of deaths I couldn’t prevent,” he says bitterly.  He can’t look at her, not when anger is boiling up in him.  “I knew to cross systems for a single man, but when whole planets are set for destruction?  Nothing.  Where’s the balance in that?  Where is there any shred of  _ goodness-- _ ”

“Castiel--”

“--if I can’t help, if I can’t stop these things, what’s the point?  Why--”

“Why fight?” she says, sitting back.  “Why try?  Why bother when you can let things burn?   _ Maybe even make them burn? _ ”

He grits his teeth.

“Castiel, I have seen [two](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Old_Republic) [Republics](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Galactic_Republic) and an [Empire](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Galactic_Empire) fall.  I have seen the Jedi Order wax and wane.  I have seen would-be Sith Lords carve swathes of destruction in their bids for power.  Civilizations have come into being and passed away while I watched.  And with every disaster, I have asked myself those same questions.”

“And?”

“And I have never found answers in rage, guilt, and regret.”

His anger feels righteous, but Castiel knows Maz is right.  “So what should I do?”

Maz shrugs.  “For whatever reason, the Force has led you to Dean.  His search and your fight are the same, at least for now.  Stay with him.  Aid him and watch over him.  But be careful.”

“Why?”

“John raised him to be a killer, Castiel.  The boy I remember had a gentle heart, and I think I see it in him still, but he’s buried it deep.  Dean Winchester is as beautiful and lethal as a [kodashi viper](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Kodashi_viper).”


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our crew have radically different evenings, bacon is consumed, and Maz Kanata brings snacks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO IT HAS BEEN A REALLY LONG TIME. 
> 
> Sorry about that. October is a tricky month for me because I work seasonally at a haunted house, which effectively consumed the 20 hours a week I like to allocate for writing. Combine that with some of the emotional beats in this chapter eluding me, and...yeah. 
> 
> Upshot: Things are going to be easier from here on out. Well, time-wise. The emotional beats are still going to keep me screaming into the void. THANKS, SUPERNATURAL.
> 
> (Also, Jo Harvelle is a fucking gift and I love her.)

The nice thing about people -- and that’s  _ people _ , not humans, because human’s just a shape and a handful of degrees of separation -- is that where there are people, there will always be a bar.  And if there’s something Dean needs right now, it’s a bar.

Being on Takodana is getting under his skin.

Maybe it’s all the green.  This planet might be the first green place he remembers, given how young he was when his father took that first smuggling job from Maz.  No, not first.   _ Only. _  He can remember a handful of jobs with stop-offs on Takodana for fuel or intel, but never this part of the planet.  John kept them to the cities mostly, hunting acquisitions for the Guild.  Once they were guilded, smuggling was a sideline, not a staple.  

(And that’s one of Dean’s many perfectly solid reasons to drink.  Sam might have run off to college -- or to be a Republic stooge as far as their dad was concerned -- but leaving them in the lurch was better than screwing his family out of critical resources and a livelihood.  Dean doesn’t regret breaking the [Creed](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Bounty_Hunters'_Creed) -- saving Jo and Ellen was worth it, and shooting Gordon Walker in the throat with a [slugthrower](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Slugthrower) to do it was just icing -- but getting his whole family blacklisted from the Guild for it?  Yeah,  _ that _ he regrets.)

There are plenty of reasons to drink.  He misses his ship, still grounded and full of holes.  His dad’s in the wind, possibly dead.  Losing that spice sale on Coruscant cost him several hundred much-needed credits.  His brain may or may not be a time bomb.  His brother’s in mourning.  Oh, and Maz Kanata’s ‘shanty’ town?  He’s spent nights in worse spaceport motels.  The worst bits of it are almost as nice as his ship.  He’s not just a fuck-up, but a fuck-up with nothing worthwhile to offer.  

So yeah, everything’s coming up Winchester.  

The bar is set up in what looks like an old [Separatist](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Confederacy_of_Independent_Systems) field hospital kit, half the original lighting refitted from a sterile white to a dimmer palette.  There’s no band, but there are plenty of holoscreens, sports and newscasts competing for attention.

Dean gestures to the bartender, a grim-looking [Duros](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Duros) with a deep green scar running across her face, cheekbone to cheekbone. 

“Let me guess: you want a glass and a bottle.”

He cracks a half-smile.  “How’d you guess?”

“You’re scruffy, able-looking, and not working.”  She sets a glass in front of him, then fishes a bottle of knock-off Corellian whiskey out of a nearby crate.  She fills his glass, then puts the bottle down beside it.  “Don’t take it personally.  You’ve got the look is all.”

“Hey, you’re the expert.”  He lifts his glass as if to toast, winks, then downs the liquor with a grimace.  

She shakes her head, a look of wry amusement on her face.  “Don’t hurt yourself, spacer,” she says, then turns away to clean a rack of glasses on the other end of the bar.  

Dean drinks.  He watches the holoscreens.  Every so often, he stares at his glass and runs his thumb along the rim of it, wondering how much liquor it’s going to take to get him out of his head for a little while. Right now, all it’s doing is helping him ruminate on things he doesn’t want to think about, like how he needs to make peace with the idea that he and Jo are going to be flying back to Agamar alone.  

Even with the castle bombed to rubble, it’s comfortable here.  Half the people are pirates and smugglers, sure, but they’re family -- Cas’ family -- and if they can build something like this after everything goes to shit?  There’s no contest.

He doesn’t notice when Maz joins him at the bar until she waves the bartender over and orders a plate of food.

“You looked hungry,” she says when it arrives, expression neutral.

“I’m good.”

“Hm.”  She peers at him through her goggles, then picks something green from the plate and pops it into her mouth.  “It’s a shame the castle was attacked.  It had quite a view.  The plain here was so lush, and the trees came around in an almost perfect crescent along the the lake.  I think you might have seen it when you visited as a boy?”

Dean keeps his eyes on his glass.  “Yeah, I remember.”  

“Your father was very efficient,” she says, squinting into the middle distance.

“Yeah, the Guild thought so too.”  He flags the bartender down and gestures for her to bring them another glass.  When it arrives, he pours two shots of whiskey into it and slides it over to Maz.  

She accepts it, drinks.  “If we’re lucky, we’ll have things built up enough by winter that the people here will be able to shelter in something better than furnished boxes.  The snow is beautiful, but hardly hospitable.”  

“You’re gonna need a lot of hands.”

“I am.”

“Good news for Cas, I guess.”  He glares at his bottle.  “Seems happier with his feet on the ground anyway.”

“You don’t approve?”

“Doesn’t matter if I approve or not.”  Dean says, fidgeting with his glass.  “But since you’re asking, I approve of whatever Cas decides he needs to do.  I brought him here, didn’t I?”

“You did.  Despite there being absolutely no profit in it for you.”

“Profit isn’t everything.”

“That’s not something I’d expect to hear from someone in your profession.”

Dean shrugs.  He could tell Maz that Cas is an asset, but the word is so wrong he can’t even imagine saying it.  He could tell her he owes Cas a debt, see if she looks at him askance like Jo and Sam already have.  In the end, he settles on shutting the hell up and taking another drink.    

They sit in silence, while the bar hums around them.  

“I’ve asked some of my contacts to check into your father’s disappearance,” she says finally.  “I can’t promise anything, but if I learn anything useful, I’ll let you know.”

“I can’t afford to pay for that.”

“It’s fortunate that profit isn’t everything, then,” she says with a faint smile.  She finishes her whiskey, then rises from her seat.  

Dean watches her go, and wonders why he feels like he’s just been tested.

# # #

Castiel has a lot of reading to catch up on.  

Rumors and reports are flying in the wake of the Hosnian System’s destruction.  Given that the Senate and a significant portion of the central government was destroyed along with the Hosnian system, the New Republic is struggling to function.  Already, some elements are pushing for breaking up the Republic in favor of something else, and there is no telling which voices will dominate the conversation in the wake of the tragedy.   

The Core, as near as he can tell, is in a strange state of both chaos and calm. Everyone is trying to do business and live their lives, but even with the Starkiller destroyed and the First Order scattered, there are localized outbursts of unrest, paranoia, xenophobia.  The attack has changed things somehow, and nobody knows what to do about it.

Planets abide.  The Galaxy is very big.  It’s relationships that are complicated.

He’d spent the afternoon after meeting with Maz walking the market, delighted by the opportunity to get his hands on real food for the first time in days, and returned with a basket’s worth of produce, meat, and other things.  He cooks, then settles in to reconnect with his life, checking in on his accounts, responding to messages from his father and Gabriel, and so on.

(He doesn’t mention Lucifer to his family.  He knows the question won’t keep forever, but...)

It’s already dark when he hears the door to the suite open.  He stands up and peers out of the doorway of his bedroom to find Dean staring at the food on the counter.

“I made dinner,” Castiel says, and leans against the doorframe.  “[Nuna](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Nuna) sausage, onions, potatoes.  Should be enough for the three of us.”  

Dean blinks at him, glassy-eyed.  He wobbles a little on his feet, plants a hand on the kitchen island to steady himself.

“I see you found the bar.”

“Yeah,” Dean says.  His expression is uncharacteristically somber, and he looks at Castiel for a long moment before he turns away to shuffle toward his room.  “Tell Jo I said to be ready to go as soon as we resupply.”

Castiel pushes away from his doorframe and makes to follow.  “Is everything alright?”

“Peachy,” Dean slurs.  

“Dean--”  Castiel reaches out to touch his shoulder, but Dean catches him by the forearm.

“Look, I get it.  It’s better here.  I’m just some lowlife spacer you got stuck with while trying to make the Galaxy a better place.  My ship’s a wreck, my life’s…”   Dean shakes his head, laughs mirthlessly.  “Even fucked up, it’s better here, and you’ve got work to do, and you’ve got Maz and Gabriel and the Force and whatever else, and I’ve got no right to --”

Something in Dean’s face breaks, and Goddess, he’s not even  _ trying  _ and Cas can feel the anguish rolling off of Dean like heavy fog.  

“-- I mean, shit, I knew all the way back on Agamar, but I thought, you know, maybe if we...if we came with you --”

“You think I’m staying here on Takodana?”

Dean huffs out a breath -- a sob, honestly, though Castiel can see how hard he pushes it down -- and forces out another laugh.  “I’m not an idiot, Cas.  You  _ fit _ here.  You don’t need me, and Maz needs you, and--”

Castiel moves into Dean’s space -- awkward, given that Dean’s still got him by the arm -- and touches Dean’s cheek.  He braces for Dean to push away, to be angry at him, given how uncomfortable Dean had seemed in the galley after they’d woken up together, but --

Dean sways into Castiel’s touch.  He closes his eyes and swallows, then sets his jaw, as if anticipating some new hurt.  

Castiel traces lightly over Dean’s cheekbone with his thumb.  The tension lifts just a little from Dean’s brow, and while he keeps his eyes closed, his lids flutter slightly.  Castiel can’t help but take in the sight of him: long lashes, the freckles on his eyelids, the flush of his cheeks, and, before the thinking part of his brain can stop him, Castiel leans in and kisses him.  

Dean jerks away, rigid and wild-eyed.  

“I’m sorry.”  Castiel fumbles back, but Dean’s grip on his arm tightens.  “I’m sorry.  Shit, I’m sorry,” he says again, fighting down panic.   _ Dean won’t hurt me _ , he tells himself, over and over, but his mind is swimming.  His lips taste like Dean’s cheap liquor, and his body wants to fight or run, and all he can say is  _ I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry _ .

“Shit,” Dean whispers, closing the distance between them.  He wraps an arm around Castiel’s shoulders, and rests his forehead against Castiel’s own.  His body is warm, but he’s shaking, and Castiel can taste his breath.  “Shit.  Why’d you have to do that?”  

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want you to be sorry,” Dean whispers.  “I want you to stay with me.”

“I am.”

“No,” Dean shakes his head, a single tear running down his cheek.  “I live in space and you hate it and you’ve got everything here and I’m poison and--”

Castiel combs his fingers through Dean’s hair with his free hand.  “You’re not poison.  You’re drunk.  You need water and some rest.  Come on.”

Dean sucks in an unsteady breath, nods, and loosens his grip as Castiel leads him to bed.

# # #

The first thing that goes through Dean’s mind when he wakes up is that his mouth tastes like a trash compactor.

Also, his head feels like it’s imploding, he’s thirsty as hell, and there isn’t a part of him that wouldn’t welcome total oblivion.  He is at least in a bed -- a good sign -- but he’s found himself in his fair share of wrong beds over the years.  

He braces for unpleasant surprises and opens his eyes.  

“Oh, thank fuck,” he groans, relieved to find that he’s very much in the right bed.  He’s also wearing pants, which reduces somewhat the range of drunken mistakes he’s likely to have made.

Dean rolls over to pick up his datapad, and stops short when he notices a bottle of water and a couple of vitapills beside it on the nightstand.  He blinks at them, bemused.

Bits of last night start coming back to him: Castiel helping him to bed.  Bringing him water.  Helping him take his boots off.  

Kissing him.   _ Shit. _

Dean takes the pills, swallows them with about half of the bottle of water.  Breathes.  He licks his lips and regrets that he only remembers the kiss as a surprising blur in a sea of what is, in retrospect, a fucking embarrassing emotional episode.  

Dean rubs his face with his hands.  Waking up in the wrong bed is starting to sound pretty good right about now in terms of maintaining his dignity.  And yet, he can’t deny that there’s a part of him that wants to push forward and see what happens.  Not that he believes anything could, but...  

The only full ‘fresher suites in the camp are in a central bathhouse, so Dean settles on using the small camp unit for the basics, then cleaning up by rubbing his skin down with a dry cloth.  He spends a little longer than usual choosing what to wear -- black tac pants and a soft gray shirt that hugs his shoulders -- then grabs his datapad from the table.  He’s about to step out into the main room when he notices that the message indicator is flashing.  

Curious, he opens the cover and sets it to play.  

“Hey, it’s me,” Sam says, his face distorted by cheap holo optics.  “So, uh, long story short?  Jessica’s alive and stuck on Andarra.  I know you probably won’t get this right away, but I’m going to send the coordinates and hope you catch it before you start back from Takodana.  I mean, Andarra’s kind of on the way back, right?  Anyway, let me know one way or another.  And Dean?  Thanks.”

He stares at the datapad, stunned.  He types out a quick response to Sam confirming that he’s seen the message and will keep him posted, then pockets the pad in a thigh pocket.  

He opens the door into the main suite to find Jo and Castiel sitting at the dining room table, a small collection of food dishes set out between them.  

“You look like shit,” Jo says with a smirk.

“And you’re a fucking delight, as always,” he grumbles as he meanders over to the refrigeration unit.  He finds some cold bottles of water inside, grabs two, and makes for the table.  “How’s the mutiny coming along?”

“Pretty well.  I just have to get Cas here to sign on and then we can shove you out of the nearest convenient airlock.”

“If it helps, my stated terms so far have been a bit excessive.”

“Oh,” Dean asks, taking his seat. “What’d you ask for?”

“A moon.”  Castiel picks up a strip of crispy bacon -- nuna, by the look of it -- and takes a bite.  “Specifically, [Nar Shadda](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Nar_Shaddaa/Legends).  If I’m betraying my captain for a life of crime, I need to know that my new leader is capable of maintaining power.  Caf?”

Dean nods, accepts the mug with gratitude.  “So I woke up to a message from Sam.”

“Is he okay?” Jo asks.  

“More than,” Dean says as he loads some pastry, cheese, and meat onto his plate.  “Jess is alive.  We need to go get her.”  

Cas stands.  “I’ll let Maz know.  Jo and I already started the resupply this morning and picked up a freight job.  We should be ready to go by tonight.”

“Whoa, hold up.”  Dean gets up a little too fast, and the room spins.  

Cas catches him by the shoulder.  “Stay.  Eat.  Drink at least those two bottles of water.  I shouldn’t be gone more than about an hour.”

Dean blinks.  Sits.  Watches Cas leave in disbelief before turning to Jo.  “You picked up a  _ freight job _ ?”  

She grins, “If it helps, it’s technically contraband, we’re dropping it on [Corsin](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Corsin/Legends) \-- which is literally on the way back -- and the pay is better than standard because I am  _ fantastic _ in bed and she wants to keep in touch.”  

“Am I even in charge anymore?”   

“Don’t ask dumb questions,” Jo says with a wink.  “Now listen to the nice space witch and eat your breakfast.”

# # # 

True to Cas’ word, they’re packed and ready to go before the sun is low on the horizon.  Maz follows them to the  _ Chevelle,  _ chatting with Cas and giving instructions to the various workers and attendants that dart past while she walks with them.  

“Tell your father I told him the invitation is still open.  I know he’s got other things on his mind of late, but it would be a tremendous help to have a Hapan along, and he’s better company than Michael.”

“I’ll try.”  

“Good.  And tell Gabriel he still owes me a visit.”  

Dean doesn’t flinch at Gabriel’s name -- he is not an idiot child -- but he resents it.  He still hasn’t had an opportunity to talk to Cas at any length about the kiss, half because he has no idea how to start that conversation, and half because he’s not keen to find out that it was meaningless.  It’ll have to happen eventually, though, and that knowledge is a weight in his guts.  

He moves ahead to call down the boarding ramp.  At least the  _ Chevelle _ is reasonably familiar ground where he’ll have work to do.

“And here we are,” Maz says, eyeing the ship with a certain appraising eye.  “Ordinarily I’d have hoped for a longer visit, but under the circumstances, I’ll take a day.”  

Cas smiles and looks down at his feet.  “Believe me, any other time, you’d probably have to push me up the ramp.” 

“Your brothers used to have to carry you,” she teases.  “Enough about that, though.  I have something for you.”

She presses a soft-looking cloth pouch into his palm.  Castiel makes to open it, but she shakes her head.  “Not here.  Not until you’re underway.”

“Alright,” Cas says, and pockets it.  

“Good.  Now come here,” she says, arms open.  Castiel crouches down and wraps her in a tight hug.  When they part, she smiles at him and gives him a pat on the cheek.  “Let me know how things go, and come back to me when you can.”

“I always do,” Cas says, and stands.  

Maz turns to Jo and extends a hand.  “Harvelle, is it?”  

“Yes, ma’am.”  Jo nods, takes Maz’s hand.

“Next time you’re here, perhaps we’ll have time to meet properly.  If you’re half as good as Castiel says, I’m sure I can find you work, with or without your Captain.”

Jo laughs, gives Dean a sidelong look.  “Eh, he’s alright.  I think I’ll keep him around.”  

“Well, then we’ll just have to make do.”  Maz pats Jo on the arm, then makes her way to Dean.

“Thank you,” he says, extending his hand.  “For the hospitality.  And the help.”  

She regards his hand curiously, but takes it.  “If you’re expecting a lecture on how I expect you to bring my nephew back in one piece, I’m afraid I’m about to disappoint you.”

“Yeah, well, he’s a capable guy.  Smart money says he’ll be getting  _ me _ back somewhere safely than the other way around.”

“That does seem more likely.”  She narrows her eyes, peers closely at Dean.  “Don’t make him regret it.”

She lets go of his hand and reaches into her jacket, then hands him a small [credit ingot](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Credit_ingot), about as long as his palm is wide.  It’s golden, and sparkles where it catches the light.  It’s stamped with the crossed resh of Galactic currency.  Dean looks up at her, stunned.  

“Um.  This is--”

“For bringing him here, and taking him where he needs to go.  Just because you didn’t expect a profit doesn’t mean you should bear the cost.”

Dean nods and tucks the [aurodium](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Aurodium/Legends) ingot away.  He isn’t sure what to make of the odd smile that Maz gives him, or the way she pats his arm before she steps back.  

“Go safely,” she says, and then turns away to attend to the work of rebuilding. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of points of interest: 
> 
> \- Some things about this chapter changed because of the international tonal shift that hit earlier this week as a result of the US election. I'm looking at this in places and realizing that some things I thought I knew about these characters and their world are new. This is kind of exciting in some ways -- the John-Dean ideology dynamic is no longer quite what I thought it was, and the implications of it are more interesting to me now -- but I think I speak for a few billion people when I say I wish those changes happened differently. 
> 
> \- Dean's "dry wash" is actually inspired by bathing customs from pre-modern Europe, which were actually pretty effective.
> 
> \- There was originally going to be a pie in this chapter. Sorry, Dean.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sam goes to school, Dean is a mess, and Jo regrets that she is not permitted to make weekend plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so Fourth Quarter as a whole is hard. Sustaining part-time retail gig starts looking more like full-time, everyone has responsibilities and wants naps, etc. 
> 
> BUT HEY. NEW CHAPTER.

“Where you off to?”

Sam stops short of the kitchen door, shrugging into his jacket as he turns to look at Bobby.  “Thought I’d pop over to Calna Muun for the day.  The [University](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/University_of_Agamar)’s got a bigger library and a decent sized xenoarchaeology archive.  I think they might have something about the Spear.

“You walking?”

“Thought I’d take Dean’s speeder bike.”

Bobby nods, then reaches into his pocket.  He pulls out a small wallet, passes Sam a dull green credit chip.  “Grab some food while you’re in town.  I figure we’ll want to have something fresh in the pantry when the rest of the army gets back.”  

And that’s that.

Truth is, he’s not sure what he’ll find at the library, but the idleness is killing him.  There’s still no word from Jess or Dean, which is understandable, but in the meantime?  He’s got to find something to keep his hands and brain busy.  The ride to Calna Muun is the best thing he’s done for himself in days: warm sun on his back, wind in his hair, fields and [binka](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Binka) forests zipping past him in a long blur of green.

Calna Muun rises out of the terrain like a forest of its own.  It grows out of the river’s delta, and centuries of building and rebuilding have made it part of the terrain. The city doesn’t fight the landscape anymore; it’s absorbed by it. It’s organic in ways Core cities almost never are.

(Jess would scold him for romanticizing that, remind him of the colonizing forces that control life out on the Rim, how planets like Agamar are plundered to allow the lifestyle possible on Core worlds.  Calna Muun’s adaptations are beautiful, but they’re ingenious by necessity, not because someone at the top wanted to enrich the landscape.)

The University of Agamar has grown with the city, its oldest buildings clustered within a kilometer of the city center, with pockets of campus showing up unexpectedly in nearly every neighborhood. There’s little unifying architecture, only the distinctive signage that designates each site as part of the main campus.  Sam finds himself struggling, squinting at the maps available on the local datanet before eventually stumbling upon Tapping Hall almost by accident.  

It’s smaller than he expected, an unassuming clay brick structure with a broad, round tower.  He’s not sure he’s in the right place -- the foyer of the building is dim, designed mainly to funnel visitors toward the display collection -- but he ignores the higher archway in favor of a small door marked OFFICES.

One receptionist, two teaching assistants, and one irritable faculty member later, he’s sent away with a keycard and directions to the the lift down into the xenoarchaeology archives, affectionately (if ominously) named “Warrens.”  

When the lift opens and he sees what he’s walking into, he understands.

Where Tapping Hall is small, the Warrens is massive.  Corridors link rooms upon rooms of rail-mounted storage cabinets, each containing a dizzying array of boxes, drawers, and racks.  Each room and rack and rail has been numbered, then renumbered.  What Sam takes at first to be the whole complex turns out to be just one warehouse-sized section.

Even on Hosnian Prime, he’d never encountered anything like this.  

He glares down at the notes on his datapad, looks hopelessly at the space in front of him, and starts down a likely looking corridor--

\--and nearly knocks over a dark-haired woman holding a clay pot.  Which he barely catches.  

They stare at each other in a combination of shock and relief.   

“Um,” Sam says, and holds out the pot.

“Oh, thank the One.”  She takes it from him with careful, gloved hands and draws it near her chest.  “I’d tell you to watch where you’re going, but I think I’ll just settle for thanks.”

Sam rubs the back of his neck and chuckles.  “Yeah, sorry.  It’s my first time down here.”

“New student?” she asks, and reaches up to brush a strand of hair out of her eyes.  She’s pretty, the sort of girl Jess would tease him for checking out in passing.  

“Just visiting.”  He tilts his datapad down so that she can see the series of numbers one of the teaching assistants gave him on the screen.  “Any chance you could help me find my way around?  I’m looking for some things and have no idea where to start.”  

She peers at the datapad, then gives him a smile.  “Yeah, I can do that.  Let me just finish putting this away first.”  

“Thanks,” he says, following her down the corridor.  “I’m Sam.”

“Ruby.”  

 

# # #

 

It takes a little over an hour to get underway.  Jo takes exterior preflight, Dean takes interior, and with the exception of some minor turbulence while leaving atmo, the whole thing is both unremarkable and routine.  

They’re in hyperspace just before the two hour mark, all systems reading correct and the route set to take just about two standard days; Takodana’s practically in the [Expansion Region](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Expansion_Region), [Andara](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Andara)’s just about on the edge of the [Colonies](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Colonies).  Dean’s creative enough to take advantage of some odd pockets of open space outside of the more common trade routes.  

Having B4-8Y along would shave another few hours off, but between his own weird math and the  _ Chevelle’s  _ navicomp, they’ll still make good time.  

For now, he’s just passing time in the cockpit.  He fidgets with the ingot in his pocket, checking for the fiftieth time that it’s really there, really real.  He can more than fix the  _ Impala _ on this kind of money, maybe do an engine upgrade, replace the turret…

Shit, he can even pay Bobby back, if the stubborn son of a bitch will let him.  

He startles at a tap at the cockpit entry and turns.  Cas is waiting at the doorway, jaw tense and arms crossed tight across his chest.  Dean waves him in.  

“Thank you.”  Cas slumps into the co-pilot’s seat with a heavy sigh.  “Jo noticed a problem with one of the resonators in the ‘fresher.  She’s working on it now, but, uh…”

“Mechanical work on a ship in flight.”

Cas nods, eyes fixed on the swirling light of hyperspace.

It’s not the first time that Dean’s wanted to close the space between them, but he’s never wanted it half as badly as he wants it now, if only to find some way to comfort Cas and show him that he’s safe.  

“Thank you again for helping me see Maz.  Rationally, I know it was a waste of resources, but....”

“Hey, I get it.  If it’d been me and something happened to Bobby?  I’d have done the same thing.”

They’re silent for a long moment.

“So, what was in the pouch?”

Cas shifts in his seat, reaches into his pocket to fish it out.  “Would you believe I haven’t looked inside yet?  I wanted to feel more settled before I did and...well.”

Dean doesn’t wince, but he sure as hell feels a stab of guilt at being the one to drag Cas back into space again.  

The pouch is plain, soft cloth.  Cas works the drawstring loose, then lets the object slip out into his palm.  “Oh,” he says in a hushed tone.  He tucks the pouch away, then cradles the crystal in his hands.  

“What is that?” Dean asks, turning his chair so he can lean closer.  “It’s not the right facet type for [ice-jewel](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Ice-jewel). [Vorsian](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Ice-jewel), maybe?”

Cas shakes his head.  “It’s [kyber](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Kyber_crystal).”

“Kyber?  Like... _ kyber  _ kyber?”

“Yes.”

Dean scrubs a hand down his face, gobsmacked.  

Castiel’s expression is somewhere between awe and pure joy as he rolls the crystal into his right palm.  “I’ve read so much about them.  I never thought…”  His eyes shimmer oddly in the cockpit light as he focuses on it, coaxes it to float in the air above his palm.  He extends a hand toward Dean.  “I want you to feel this.”

Dean swallows.  Cautious, he lays his hand on Castiel’s.  

The connection is instantaneous -- it startles the shit out of him, honestly -- but then he feels the gentle hum of the crystal, sweet and inviting like a half-remembered lullaby.  It feels like home, a  _ real  _ home, not this void among the stars.  He reaches out to it on instinct, like a child, like he would for his mother, like... 

_ Dean, how are you doing th-- _

He recoils in a panic, remembering himself.  His feet go out from under him as he stumbles out of the cockpit and into the corridor.  He lands hard on his knees, scrambles back up.  

... _ Dad’s fist and a bottle to kill the pain, that’s home... _

Fingers try to close on his jacket, but he jerks away before they can touch him.

... _ a blaster rifle and blood on my hands, that’s home... _

“Dean, wait.”

_...money in the bank, vengeance and an early grave, that’s home... _

He’s got his feet under him again, and they move him away, down into the dim lights of the engine section.  His hands find a maintenance hatch, and he climbs into the warm dark of it, curls against the steel, and lets the hyperdrive’s vibrations rumble through his bones like a heartbeat.  

 

# # #

 

“Hold up.  Spear of Destiny?  Like  _ the  _ Spear of Destiny?”

“You know about it?”

Ruby rolls her eyes.  “If by ‘know about it’ you mean having a professor in my third year who was obsessed with some of the symbolism in the myth, sure.  You know it isn’t real, right?  I mean, come on: pocket [Death Star](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Death_Star) with a side of mind control?”

Sam shrugs.  “Hey, I’m just following where the leads take me.”

They’ve moved from the Warrens into one of the shared workspaces a couple of levels up, the sole useful object from Sam’s list in a box between them.  Ruby unpacks it carefully, lifting the clay tablet out of its box and placing it on a soft mat.  

“You think an ancient, fictional warship kidnapped your dad?”

“Well, when you put it that way…”  He leans forward, taking in the details of the tablet.  It’s unimaginably old, but it still bears traces of sentient beings: the indentations of finger marks, the marks made by the author, a scratch in its patina from a later hand.  “Honestly, I don’t know what I think about it, but I think Dad might have thought it was real enough to go looking.”

“So your dad’s a treasure hunter?”

“Uh, bounty hunter.”

“Family business?”

“Kind of.  My brother hunts.  I’m in law school.”  It’s not quite a lie.  He nods at the tablet.  “What’s that written in anyway?”  

“It’s an older dialect from [Korriban](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Korriban),” she says, holding a scanner over it.  She lets the beams of light graze across it, then tucks the device into her shirt pocket.  “The translator’s having trouble with it.  Idiomatic.  I should put this away and then head to class, but I could get you a pretty good text in a couple of days?”

“Yeah, that’d be great.  I mean, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“It’s not.  I needed a break from [Ewok](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Ewok) storage vessels anyway,” she says as returns the tablet to its box.  “Give me your datapad.”

He does as he’s told, watches her tap it to her commlink to exchange codes. 

“Tell you what: I’ll even do it for free if you let me give you the info over drinks?”

He should mention Jess.  Instead, he says, “Yeah, that sounds great.”

“Awesome.”  She gathers her things, gives him a wink.  “See you around, Sam.”  

“Yeah,” he says, the smile fading from his face as she disappears.  It’s not like he’s doing anything wrong.  It’s not like he’s even really  _ interested _ .  He fiddles with the ring where it hangs under his shirt.  He knows what’s important: Jess, the hunt for Dad, figuring out how it ties into the people who kidnapped Dean.  

He gathers his notes and his datapad and sees himself out.

 

# # # 

 

“Your boyfriend’s sulking in the cockpit.  Hey, did you know he’s actually pretty good at checking vectors?  For a guy who hates being on a ship, the kid’s got chops.”

“That ‘kid’ has at least eight years on you, probably,” Dean grumbles.  He doesn’t bother to sit up.  “You need something?”

“Another adult on the ship would be nice.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake--”

“I’m not kidding.  Cas couldn’t be in the damn living quarters while I changed a resonator, but you think it’s okay to hide out in the engine section?”  She grabs him by the ankle and pulls hard, hauling him most of the way out of the duct before he can stop her.  “You’re an asshole.”

“You’re just getting that?” he snaps as he brushes the dust off his jacket.    

“No.  What I’m getting is exhausted.  You’ve been weird since John went off-grid, and Coruscant just made it worse --”

“Yeah, I wonder why.  Netflash, Jo:  _ torture’s a thing _ .”

Jo crosses her arms and glares at him, hard.  Dean grits his teeth and glares back.  He might have at least a head in height on her, but in terms of sheer force of will?  Yeah, no.  Even at his best, he can’t stand up to that, and...well, he hasn’t seen his best in a while.

He sighs.  Softens his stance.  Sits down on a nearby access box and lets his face fall into his hands.  “I can’t do this.”

“Which bit?”

“Any of it?”  He peers up at Jo, lets his hands move to his knees.  “Dad’s a damn ghost, Sam’s back, some wannabe Sith chewed up my sunfruit and spat out the rind, and Cas…”  

She moves closer, standing against him and resting her hand over his shoulder.  She musses his hair when he leans his head against her hip and hugs her back, one arm around her waist, fingers hooking into the loops of her belt.  

“You’re a fucked-up mess, Dean Winchester,” she tells him, and he laughs despite the tears pricking in his eyes.  “But you’re  _ our  _ fucked-up mess.  Go get some rest in an actual bunk.  I’ll take stick until Andara.  Well, unless that hot Keshian boy makes a move--”

Dean punches her gently in the thigh.

“--in which case I will promptly airlock myself for your benefit.”

“Damn right you will,” he says.

 

# # # 

 

By the time they arrive on Andara, Castiel is more than ready to set down.  

He’s taken pains to give Dean space since the incident in the cockpit.  It’s not what he wants at all, but Jo has been subtly encouraging him to stick by her side with games of sabacc and long stories about her life before hunting, her mother, the weird contrasts between free Twi’lek traditions and the ones she’d been brought up with.

“Ever seen a [kalikori](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Kalikori)?”

He shakes his head. 

“Me neither, but Mom--” she says, tapping at her datapad to bring up a small hologram of a Twi’lek woman with striking markings, holding what looks like a painted stick.  “--she started one.  Shoulda seen her face when I told her it looked like a fancy table leg.”

Landing prep is no better.  Dean doesn’t speak more than a handful of words to him, and all of them are practical.  The minute they’re on the ground, Dean gears up and drops the ramp.

“Take a sidearm and stick with Jo,” he says, then jogs across the duracrete into the crowd.

“Don’t take it personally,” Jo tells him as he fixes the holster to his thigh, but it’s easier said than done.  “Come on.  Let’s go check out the duty-free zone.”

So they wander.  A spaceport is a spaceport, but every planet and city tries to be distinctive somehow.  He spots advertisements for services in [Utare](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Utare), artwork depicting the motifs of the [Leadership School](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Leadership_School), and -- less conventionally -- a large glass orrery.  

He watches it while Jo haggles, one hand in the pocket where he’s been keeping the crystal Maz gave him.  Its presence is a comfort, even if it also fills him with a gnawing feeling of hurt and guilt.  

Dean is increasingly at the center of his thoughts.  He might have come along originally because Dean’s search for his father was connected to Castiel’s own instinctive need to act according to where the Force leads him, but more and more he simply wants to be close to Dean.  Objective awareness of Dean’s physique, his skill, the wounds he still bears from Coruscant has given way to desire, admiration, and a sense of responsibility.

He hadn’t asked Dean to take his hand in the cockpit for any practical purpose.  He’d simply wanted to share something beautiful.

“Hey, you want to go get a drink?” Jo asks, nudging him out of his reverie.  

“Goddess, yes.”

The bar is busy -- more crowded than it would be at this time of day if it were out in the city instead of in the spaceport -- but the drinks are strong, and before long, he and Jo are both a little deeper in their cups than they probably ought to be.  

“Cas, check your six,” she whispers.

He does as he’s told, frowns as he memorizes the features of a sturdily-built [Sarkhai](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Sarkhai_\(species\)) in snug black leather.  “Should I be concerned?”

“What?  No!” she hisses at him in a stage whisper.  “Well, for my pants, maybe.  Damn.  Just...damn.”

He looks over again at the Sarkhai, who notices him.  Winks.  Castiel blushes, goes back to his drink.  

“I can’t take you anywhere,” she teases, then flags down a server, gesturing for another round.  “Tell me if I’m overstepping, by the way.  It’s usually just me and Dean out here.”

Castiel shakes his head.  “No, its good.  I’m just still getting used to friendly company.  It’s not something I get much of when I’m away from home.  Or even at home, really.”

“Too many secrets?”

“Something like that.”

Jo finishes her drink.  “Couple of runs ago I met this guy.  Great ass, funny, the whole nine parsecs.  Everything was fine until he got my shirt off and spotted my old slave brand.  Then, it was like I had some kind of disease.”

“What’d you do?”

“Threw his clothes out the window and told him to get bent.  What else?”  She grins, but Castiel can see something familiar under it.  Something that never really heals.  “Anyway.  Us misfits?  We stick together.  Rest of the Galaxy can get fucked.”

“Sounds lonely,” Castiel says.

“Yeah, well.  I was probably going to be lonely anyway,” she says, then rattles something angry off in Dosh that Castiel doesn’t quite get the gist of.  “Shame we’re not staying.  Pretty sure that Sarkhai’d be down for a threesome.”  

He doesn’t quite choke on his drink, but Jo laughs anyway.  Castiel smiles.

 

# # # 

 

When Dean was ten, his father sat him down and gave him a talk.

It was a talk many fathers give their sons at a certain age: matters of anatomy (albeit limited to that of baseline humans, and particularly the coupling of men with women), as well as common sense about consent and safety.

There were other things as well.  Don’t get attached.  Make sure she knows you’re not sticking around.  Don’t let feelings get in the way of the mission.  

Being a relatively isolated ten-year-old boy in possession of Holonet access (as well as a blaster-rifle, with which he’d already made several kills), Dean had already absorbed most of what John was telling him by a combination of cultural osmosis and curiosity.  The rest he takes in easily.  

He doesn’t question John’s motives.  Dean is a soldier.  He understands discipline.  He wants to make his father proud. 

He grows into the talk.  He earns the right sort of reputation, sees the twinkle in his father’s eye when he comes home looking a certain sort of rumpled.  Even gets the occasional slap on the back or  _ “Attaboy, Dean” _ from Dad for it, just the same as when he’d put a blaster bolt in some scumbag’s brainpan.  

_ Attaboy, Dean.  Attaboy. _

He fucks up when he’s fifteen -- keeps a memento from a girl named Rhonda Hurley -- and spends the whole next jump terrified Dad’ll find it.  He winds up smuggling it along on the next job and stuffs it in a garbage chute when nobody’s looking.  Dean regrets it later, hates how much it hurts to throw something away.  It’s his own fault, though.  He got attached, just like Dad warned him not to.  Fucking up _hurts_.

He reminds himself that he’s a soldier.  All he has to do is keep discipline, keep his head in the game, and work hard so he can smoke the yellow-eyed bastard who killed his Mom.  Everything else is gravy.

For a while, it seems like they’re getting close.  Dean’s got more than a rifle to his name these days; he’s like the second coming of [Boba-freaking-Fett](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Boba_Fett).  He’s fast, he’s deadly, and this hunt’s going to be over any day now.  Just another couple leads and they’ll have a name, or a transponder code for the bastard’s ship, and then…

He finds Sam’s go-bag by accident.  He’d spotted the signs a week before, but didn’t want to believe it.  Running away is betrayal, cowardice.  It weakens their unit.  He’s got it in hand, ready to dump it in the trash compactor when he hears Sam coming down the corridor.  

He stows the bag back in its compartment.  Doesn’t mention it.

Three nights later, Dean pretends to sleep.  If Sam finds a few unfamiliar credit chips in his go-bag, that’s nobody’s business.  Sam wants to play civilian and Dean is a soldier.  Dean understands discipline.  He doesn’t run away.  He can still make his father proud.

Liquor and spice, sex and fighting, bloodshed and adrenaline don’t kill the pain, but they’re a hell of a distraction.  He’s long mastered Dad’s talk, moved beyond it even, learning lessons of anatomy his dad didn’t think to teach him.  

Sometimes he wonders if that’s where it all started.  If he and Dad would still be in the Guild if he’d kept to women.  Humans.  Desire might not be a choice, but acting on it is.  How many dozen small rebellions in the form of illicit kisses and backroom fucks had primed him to violate a direct order and stand up to Gordon Walker?  

Right or not -- and he is right, Jo and Ellen are living proof -- Dad made it pretty clear: he’s a disappointment.  A fuck-up.  He’s just as selfish as Sam, putting what he wants ahead of duty and family.  He didn’t just weaken the unit: he annihilated it.  

Dean was supposed to be a soldier.  Now he’s just a criminal.  They have to work four times as hard for half the resources now.  Maybe if he’d stayed a soldier, Dad would have trusted him enough to tell him about the thing with Bela.  Maybe Dad wouldn’t have fucking abandoned him like this.  

Then again, maybe not.  There are a lot of things about Dad he’s starting to question these days.  Maybe not out loud, but...

Dean slides a hand into his pocket and wraps his fingers around Cas’ stylus.  It’s a stolen comfort, but he’s a thief and a scavenger as well as a killer these days. He’s entitled.  Hell, it’s not even stealing really because Cas kissed him on Takodana, and stayed with him in his bunk on the  _ Chevelle _ , and wanted him to feel the hum of the crystal Maz gave him.  

He’s kept things at arm’s length for a lot of reasons with Cas.  Gabriel’s feelings don’t figure in at all, but the fact Cas got mixed up with someone like that does.  Cas doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to welcome come-ons if he’s attached, but there’s something going on here between Cas and him.  Cas who’s saved him twice, fights like a nexu, and...well, Dean’s starting to think he wants to be stolen.

He’s got no idea what that’d look like.  Having someone around, not just as a crewmate and a friend like Jo, but something more.  Waking up with someone he knows in his bunk on the  _ Impala  _ instead of waking up with another stranger in a grimy spaceport motel.  Maybe having a place somewhere that’s not a starship, even.  Not that he wants to quit the life, but --

“Dean Winchester?”  The kid in the hostel uniform looks a little rumpled, a little bored.  His jacket is too loose on him, his glasses are thick-framed and big for his face.  His hair is untidy.  Even the smudgy handwriting on his nametag -- Del -- is a mess.  “You’re here for Jessica Moore?”

“Yeah.”    

“Come with me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes: 
> 
> \- Whether early twenties Dean is _actually_ on a level with Boba Fett is left to the reader, but he's definitely got the attitude, and backs it with a variety of weapons.   
>  \- Jo Harvelle is fucking everything, as well as the only adult on the premises, I swear.   
> \- The distance between Bobby's salvage yard and Calna Muun is roughly twenty miles. It's a long (but not impossible) walk, but a reasonably quick and pleasant ride.  
> \- I hadn't realized that Agamar had a university with a major xenoarchaeology department when I put Bobby's home there, but here we are. Thanks, Star Wars!


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the price for things going to plan is steep, and both Winchesters make significant choices.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up: there is a brief, non-graphic medical horror moment in this chapter.
> 
> More notes at the end.

Dean’s starting to [have a bad feeling about this](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/I_have_a_bad_feeling_about_this).

The Panorama Smile Hostel doesn’t look like much inside or out -- boxy, flat gray facade with a grubby, faded interior -- but he hadn’t exactly expected the [Grand Bespin](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Grand_Bespin_Hotel).  He’s been in an army’s worth of crumbling motels, hostels, and roadhouses in a dozen systems.  He knows the smells, the sounds, the grime better than anyone. 

This place is too quiet, too musty for him to shrug off a concierge escort as localized custom or a quirk of security.  It’s grubby with neglect, not wear.  

They turn the corner into a small lounge, and Dean reaches for his blaster.  The sharp jab of a weapon barrel into his back stops him. 

“Seriously?”

The concierge -- Del -- jabs him again.  “Hands where I can--”

Dean step-turns, latches on to Del’s blaster arm, and delivers a vicious strike to his jaw.  Del tries to pull back, but Dean’s got control of the situation now, and he doesn’t waste time: a knee strike disables, a sharp twist of the wrist disarms, and three quick blaster shots solves the problem permanently.

Del’s body drops to the ground at his feet.  Dean reaches for his commlink, but drops it in favor of his blaster at the sound of a single pair of hands clapping.  He finds his target quickly enough: a stocky [Chiss](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Chiss) in black brocade, seated in an ancient armchair.   

“Who the hell are you?”

“We’ll get to that,” the man says, removing a flask from his pocket and pouring a couple of fingers of liquor into a glass.  “Can I interest you in a drink?”

“Stalling isn’t boosting your chances of survival here, buddy.”

“Fine.”  The man takes a leisurely sip from his glass.  “Unless your [Cheunh](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Cheunh) is significantly better than your manners -- which I doubt -- the name’s Crowley.  You and I are about to make a deal.  Observe.”  

He snaps his fingers and the holo unit on the table beside him flickers to life.  Lines of light flicker and coalesce into an image of two people seated at a table in a spaceport bar: Jo and Cas.  Not good. 

“I have to say, I didn’t expect you to just walk in on your own, but I appreciate your willingness to leave your crew behind.  Pretty things, by the way, if you wanted to monetize.  I’ve had a pair of snipers on them for the better part of a standard hour.”  Crowley smiles.  “Now might be a good time to lower that blaster, don’t you agree?”

Dean’s jaw goes tight.  He engages the safety, drops aim, and holsters his weapon.  

“Good boy.  Now, to business.”  He stands and draws a datapad from the folds of his robes.  “I’m offering you a contract, payment in advance, and wildly to your advantage.  You get the girl, as well as reinstatement to Guild status.  Your crew too, if you like.  No initiation required.”

“Can’t happen.  I’m blacklisted.”

Crowley scoffs.  “Please.  Like I can’t buy one little syndicate.  I’ve got senators in my pocket.  In fact, I think you’ve already met one.”

“Talbot,” Dean says, the pieces clicking into place.  

“My, aren’t you quick.”  

Dean glances at the holo, searching for any sign that Cas or Jo realize the danger they’re in.  “What’s the job?”

“Not job.  Jobs.”  He hands Dean the datapad.  “You agree to be my hired gun -- no questions, no reservations -- for ten standard years.”

“And if I say no?”

“Your crew dies.  Not to mention--”  Crowley snaps his fingers and the holo image shifts.  It takes him a moment to recognize Jessica.  Her hair is messy, her face streaked with tears.  She’s bound and sobbing, a blaster rifle pressed to the back of her head.  “--I won’t have any reason to keep Miss Moore around.”

_ Son of a bitch. _

“So, do we have a deal?”

Dean closes his eyes.  Takes a breath.  He could drop Crowley here and now, easy.  Hell, he’s probably not even armed.  Just one shot.  One shot is all it would take to walk away, alone, but alive.  

He’s never killed four people with one shot before.

Dean presses his thumb to the datapad to sign the contract.  “Deal.”

“Excellent,” Crowley says with a clap of his hands.  A door opens and a white-haired man with an impressive mustache enters carrying a medical tray.  

“The hell is this?”  Dean’s stance turns defensive.  He rests a hand on his blaster.

“[Cortex charge](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Cortex_charge).”  Crowley gestures with the datapad.  “Provision of the contract.  You don’t think I’m letting you run about without insurance, do you?  Don’t worry.  Guthrie’s got an excellent bedside manner.”

“No.”  Dean draws his blaster, levels at Guthrie first, then Crowley.  “No fucking way.”

“Well, if that’s the way you feel about it--” Crowley taps his commlink.  “Guns ready.  Fire in three, two--”  

Dean lowers his blaster.  

“Hold fire.”

The procedure is quick, if not painless.  There’s a quick shot of anaesthetic with a syringe gun, followed by an unsettling series of sensations as the surgical tool creates an incision at the base of his skull.  Guthrie uses a long needle to insert the charge before applying shot of antiseptic sealant to the wound.  It’s all Dean can do to keep his stomach in check, though he’s not sure whether it’s the experience or the fact that Crowley owns him that makes him sick.

“Your credentials will be waiting for you on your datapad,” Crowley tells him.  “Guthrie will escort you to meet Miss Moore and arrange for transport.  Enjoy building your team.  I’ll be in touch.”   

 

# # # 

 

Sam wakes up to two messages.

The first is a brief note from Dean -- sent days ago from Takodana -- acknowledging that he’s received Sam’s message and will keep him updated.  It’s frustratingly terse, not even a holo, and tells him absolutely fucking nothing.

The other is from Ruby.  

Her image flickers a few inches above his datapad, and she smiles at him from what he assumes is a dormitory room or a small bedroom.  

“Hey Sam, it’s me!  I’ve made some progress on the tablet and figured I could show you the preliminary translations?  I’m sending the address for a place here in town.  I’ll be there tonight anyway, but maybe we could make it a date?  See you soon!”

The ring around his neck bumps against his chest as he leans back, and he fidgets with it.

It’s not like Dean hasn’t strung a mark along for work, he tells himself.  And this  _ is _ work.  Everything that went wrong on Coruscant went wrong because someone thought they knew about this thing  _ and  _ it’s their best lead on finding Dad.  

Sam smoothes down his hair, tucks the ring under his shirt, and smiles into the holo recorder.  It’s just a few days.  It’ll be sorted out before Jess even gets here. 

 

# # # 

 

Crowley’s goons load him into a sleek black speeder with a heavy blast divider between the passenger and driver compartments.  The panic and nausea have receded to bleak numbness as all of the exit strategies playing through his head fail, one by one.  

Jessica is already here, curled defensively in her seat.  Dean punches down his own distress; knowing he’s fucked isn’t going to make things easier.  He moves slow, keeping his hands visible as he settles into his seat.  

“You okay?”

“I’ll be better when we get out of here,” she says, glaring, though not quite at him.  

He nods, picks his commlink out of his pocket.  “Jo?  You read?”

“Loud and clear, boss.”

“Great.  Go get preflight started.  Keep Cas with you.  We should be there within the hour.”  

“On it.”  

He looks Jess over again, this time with a strategic eye.  No visible injuries other than the marks from a pair of cuffs, but her clothes are rumpled.  She’s pulled her hair back into a messy braid.  Jess gives him a sideways glare.  

“How long’s it been since you’ve seen a full ‘fresher unit or a change of clothes?”

“I was wearing this when they kidnapped me.  I don’t know what they did with my bag.  I was headed back to the spaceport for my flight home.”  She fidgets with the hem of her shirt, looks out the window at the city as it passes.  “I guess I should be thankful.”

She doesn’t say for what, but based on what he’s seen of it, Dean’s pretty sure Crowley’s hospitality isn’t something anyone ought to be grateful for.  He’s hoping that accounts for her apparent anger, but he’s not ready to lay credits on that.  It’s not like he knows her.  Not really.

Dean picks up his commlink again.  “Hey, Jo?”

“Yeah?”

“Grab some kit and clothes for our passenger on your way.  Think Cas’ height, leaner build.  Anything she’ll need between here and Agamar.”

“Copy that.”

Jess doesn’t turn or speak, but Dean catches her reflection in the window, watching him.  He makes no sign of noticing.  He just settles into his seat, turns to his own window, and starts trying to work out a plan.   

 

# # # 

 

Castiel waits on the ramp and watches the activity of the spaceport around them while Jo finishes the last few steps of exterior preflight checks.  She’s got the automated interior checks running already; they’ll be ready to depart in minutes once Dean and Jessica arrive.

The buzz of the alcohol is a warm, pleasant counterpoint to his own jangling nerves.  Not that it makes the prospect of takeoff any less distressing, but it dulls the immediacy somewhat.  Perhaps he ought to self-medicate more often.

His discomfort ratchets up when Jessica and Dean arrive, reminding him why he doesn’t.

Jessica is a beacon of trauma and anger.  It doesn’t surprise him given her recent loss, but that doesn’t account for her being empty-handed, or the way she eyes him, Jo, and the ship with a combination of resignation and distrust.  

“Cas, get Jess on board,” Dean says.  “Give her the tour, get her a bunk.  We’ll be up in a minute.”

To his credit, Castiel doesn’t retch when the taste of bitter rations floods his mouth the moment he looks at Dean.  The collar he feels is long-abandoned, the searing brand undone.  He stares at Dean in mute horror.   _ No _ , he begs of any divine being, any manifestation of the Force that will listen.   _ Please let me be wrong.   _

“Cas?" Dean says, impatient.  "You with me?”  

“Sorry,” he says, and turns his attention to Jessica.  “I’ll help get you settled.”

 

# # # 

 

Dean licks his lips.  “So, uh, how serious were you about that mutiny?”

Jo crouches down to finish inspecting the landing gear.  “Well, I don’t own Nar Shadda yet, which means Cas is out.”

“I’m serious.”  

She leans left in her crouch, peering up at him.  “How screwed are you?”

“Um.  Pretty screwed, with the option to screw everyone on the ship,” he says, kicking at the duracrete.  “Also, I’m cortexed.”  

“Kriffing fuck, Dean,  _ how? _  You were gone, what, two hours?”  She comes out from under the ship, wipes her hands on her flight suit.  He can see her evaluating the area, checking for hostiles.  “You keyed to blow if you leave town?  Orbit?”

He shakes his head. 

“Then we’ll deal with this when we’re out of blaster range,” she says, grabbing him by the arm.  “Come on.  Let’s get off this dirtball.”

 

# # # 

 

As tours go, there isn’t much to see: just a cockpit, a galley, and a ring of dual-bunk berths with a small ‘fresher unit shared among them.  She spots a shopping bag in one of the unused berths.  

“That’s yours,” the man with the strange eyes -- Cas -- says.  “We didn’t know exactly what you needed.  If you’re missing anything, I’m sure one of us will have something to spare.”  

“Thanks.”  She peers into the berth.  After two weeks confined to a bare room, being stuck on a cargo ship should feel like an improvement.  It doesn’t.  

“Are you hungry?  Is there anything I can find for you before we get underway?”

“No.”  She shakes her head.  “I just...I could use some time if that’s alright.  Maybe use the ‘fresher.”

“Of course.  If you need someone--”

Jess turns away, picks up the bag.  “Yeah.  Got it.”

She waits until his footsteps fade down the corridor before sitting down on the bunk and beginning to sob.  

Everything is gone.

She’s known, of course.  It’d been one of the first things that Crowley told her in that horrible little room, and how she’d better be grateful.   _ You’d have been atoms without me, girl.   _ Somehow, though, it hadn’t felt real.  Even when he’d made her contact Sam, it wasn’t real.  

Getting on this ship, bound for Agamar, now it’s real.  Her parents, her cousins, her home, her school, her friends, her life: everything is gone, and there’s nothing left to hold.  Nothing but Sam, who pretty obviously hid a lot of things about himself.  He’d always held back, always been a little secretive, but...even assuming Crowley embellished, the picture he’d painted of Sam’s family had been terrifying.  

There’s a vibration as the ship’s engines engage, and a lurch as it begins to rise out of its berth.  She waits out the turbulence of takeoff by picking through the bag. It isn’t much, just three changes of clothing, basic toiletries, and a packet of some kind of candy.  She wonders whether it was Cas or the Twi’lek girl -- Jo? -- who chose it.  

She wonders if they’re killers, too.  

There’s a final lurch when the ship enters hyperspace.  Whoever these people are, and whatever their intentions, she’s with them for now.  She chooses a pair of soft gray exercise pants and a loose green tunic from the bag and carries them with her to the ‘fresher.  

 

# # # 

 

“Where’s Jess?” 

“Asleep,” Castiel says, leaning against the entry to the cockpit.  He’d spent takeoff in the galley, and then the better part of half an hour struggling to re-center himself.  He’d made a cup of caf in the end, then wandered the parts of the ship where he felt (mostly) safe until the last of the adrenaline had eased off.  “She’s exhausted.  It’s been a difficult couple of weeks for her, I suspect.”  

Jo nods.  

“So,” he says, dropping into the copilot’s seat.  “Where’s Dean?”  

“I was hoping he was with you.”  Her lekku twitch, and while Castiel can’t say he understands the finer points of Twi’lek communication, he gets the distinct impression profanity may be involved. “I’m sorry, Cas.  He’s…compromised.  It’s complicated.”

He swirls his caf in its cup, takes a drink.  “A collar isn’t complicated.”

“Ain’t the collar that’s complicated,” she says with a sigh.  “How’d you know?”

“Space witch.”  The corner of his mouth tics up.  “It’s hard to filter things out when I’ve been drinking.  I had flashbacks just looking at him.”

“You must be fantastic at parties.”

“So I’m told.”  He stares out at the endless ripple of hyperspace.  “So what’s complicated?”

“Well, we were the leverage, for a start.  Well, us and the girl.  Snipers in the bar.”

This time, it’s Castiel’s turn to curse.  

“Not your fault.”  She shrugs.  “And before you ask, Dean agrees.  If there’s something he’s good at, it’s feeling guilty.”

“And the rest?”

She chews her lip, frowns, checks over her shoulder to make sure they’re alone.  “You’ve got to understand something about Dean.  Any kind of normal home he had died when some mercs killed his mom.  His dad was an ex-Imperial Marine, drilled a lot of crap about obedience and the mission into him.  He can take out six targets as easy as breathing, but people mess him up.”  

Castiel sits back in his chair.  Suddenly, a lot of things are beginning to make sense.

“He’s got the biggest damn heart, Cas.  How John didn’t manage to kill it is beyond me, but lately I think he’s been figuring out that it’s something worth listening to instead of just following orders.  Getting shoved back in a cage because we weren’t acceptable losses?  It’s like every choice he’s made for himself these last couple of years just came crumbling down, and I don’t think he sees a way out.”

“There’s always a way out,” Castiel says, and stands.  “We’re just going to have to help him find it.”

 

# # # 

 

Dean pops the crate open, pulls out a bundle of shipping blankets, and carries them over to the support column.  It’s awkward work at first -- the bonding tape doesn’t stick to the heavy fabric well -- but once he gets the first one wrapped, it gets easier.  Tack, wrap, bind, repeat.  

He looks over his work, checks the padding on the column.  Strikes it once.  Then again.  He lets his fists fly, over and over.  The pain does not concern him.  Only the motion, the exertion.  The blood on his knuckles is nothing.  He rages, slamming his fists against the column.  It's not enough.  He grabs the crate, smashes it against the column again and again, crushing it out of shape before he drops it.  

Exhausted, he drops to his knees, panting.  He refuses to cry.

“Does it help?” 

Dean looks up to see Cas standing just inside the cargo hold, and can’t decide if he’s relieved or ashamed.  He shakes his head.  “Not really.”

He doesn’t move away when Cas sits down in front of him, or when he takes Dean’s bloodied hands into his own, examining them with more gentleness than he deserves.  

“Do you want me to tell you those feelings will get easier?”

“No.”

“Good.  Those feelings are what’s going to keep you alive.”  He reaches into his pocket and produces a packet of bacta wipes.  “If you’d mentioned you needed a sparring partner, I’d have been happy to join you.”  

He hasn’t got an answer for that.  Instead he just sits while Cas wipes the blood from his knuckles and soothes his bruises.  “Why do you keep helping me, Cas?”

Cas doesn’t look up, though Dean can see the faint smile on his face.  “Insanity, probably.”  

“No, I mean it.”  

“Because of all the people in this galaxy I could be helping, you’re the one the path led to.”  Cas tucks the used bacta wipes back in their pouch, crumples it closed, and puts it back in his pocket.  He scoots across the floor so that he’s side-by-side with Dean, shoulders and thighs touching.  “Also, you seem to need it constantly--” 

Dean elbows him, smiles in spite of himself.  “So’s that why you kissed me on Takodana?”

“That was more impulse than duty.”  Cas licks his lips.  “In retrospect, it might have been a little rash.”  

“Discretion?”  

Cas scoffs softly.  “Something like that.”  

“Does it help?”

“Others, perhaps.”  Cas shrugs, fiddles with his boot.  “Lately it seems it’s rarely to my own benefit.”  

Dean nods.  “So give it up.”  

“Oh?” Cas says, eyebrows raised.  “Is that what you’d do?”  

“That’s the opposite of what I’d do.”  He looks down at his hands.  They ache, but the skin is already starting to knit thanks to the bacta.  “But I ain’t exactly a role model.”

“That’s not true.”  

Dean closes his eyes.  The insertion site at the base of his skull aches.  

Beside him, Cas shifts position.  Dean assumes he’s getting up to leave until he feels the press of Cas’ hand against his cheek.  He opens his eyes, to see that Cas is kneeling, gazing at him with a strange intensity.  Like he’s worth something.  

“Which would you have me choose?” Cas asks softly, lips only inches from Dean’s own.  “Impulse or discretion?”

It’s barely a question.  Dean wants -- every part of him wants -- to say yes to this.  He leans into Cas’ touch, closes his eyes.  It would be so easy to lean in just a little further and meet those lips.  Instead, the words tumble out, like one last ditch effort at self-defense: “Do you love him?”

“Who?”

“Gabriel.”

Cas pulls away. 

Dean fully expects this to be the end of it, the heartbreak that puts the matter to rest.  Instead, he’s greeted by a look of total confusion on Cas’ face.  He narrows his eyes, tilts his head to the side.  

“You love Sam, don’t you?”

“Well sure, but Sam’s my  _ brother _ .  You and Gabriel...”

Castiel blinks at him.  

“You two, you’re...I mean...you’re...”  Dean makes a vague gesture, looks up, and then plants his face in his aching hands.  “[Sarlaac](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Sarlaac)’s tits, I’m an idiot.”

“Ordinarily I’d disagree, but under the circumstances, I’m letting it stand.”  

“Shit.”  He laughs -- giggles, honestly -- at the absurdity of it.  “Just... _ shit _ .  Kinda ruined the moment there, huh?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel says, sitting back on his heels.  “I think it’s charming, knowing you held back because you thought I was spoken for.  Unusually chivalrous for a bounty hunter.” 

“Charming  _ and _ chivalrous, huh?”  Dean grins and leans forward.  “I’m gonna put that on my Guild profile.”

“You sure you want that to be common knowledge?” Cas moves closer.  “I’d think business would be better when people think you’re dangerous.”

“I can be charming and dangerous at the same time.”  He shifts to kneel, and slips a knee between Cas’s own.   “See?”

Cas eyes glimmer, pupils wide as he watches Dean’s fingers skate up the outer seam of his pants.  

“Impulse it is,” he says taking Dean’s face in his hands.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes:   
> \- No, your eyes do not deceive you. I did indeed steal lines from the burger date in 10x09.   
> \- As far as I'm aware, sarlaacs are not mammals.   
> \- I have taken some creative liberties with cortex charges. If you're curious about the specifics, think of something about the size of a modern RFID chip for pet identification (i.e. about the size of a grain of rice) that is placed roughly in the space where cerebrum and cerebellum meet, approximately in the space between hemispheres. The explosive power of a cortex charge is limited -- imagine something in the range of a large fire cracker -- but that's more than enough to kill or permanently disable.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are kisses, drinks, and multiple bad decisions. Also, an explosion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hey. Welcome back after a long-ass hiatus. 
> 
> The current plan is to aim for a new chapter about every 7-10 days, with allowances made for the occasional off-week. Some notes at the end.

It’s been some time since Castiel had occasion to kiss.

He’s still got a grasp on the fundamentals (if Dean’s response is anything to judge by) but being pulled close, feeling Dean’s hands finding their way into his hair, his clothes… 

It’s overwhelming.

He’s eager to reciprocate, hands sliding down from Dean’s jaw to his chest, his waist, and finally coming to rest on the edge of Dean’s utility belt.  He rucks up the fabric of Dean’s shirt to get his hands on skin as he he abandons Dean’s mouth in favor of his jaw.  The sharp tang of Dean’s sweat and the salt on his skin almost blots out the cloying stink of the bacta.  He growls, nips at Dean’s skin, and starts to shrug out of his vest.  

“Hey, hold up,” Dean says, catching him by the arm.  “Wait.”  

Castiel blinks and pulls away, confused.     

“I just, um.  This is...it’s been a day, and--”  Dean, already flushed, goes an even more heightened shade of pink.  “Plus, uh, this grating is killing my knees, and--”

“Oh.”  Castiel pulls back, sits on his heels.  

He’s not sure where to look, and for an awful second he thinks he’s made a fatal mistake, driven Dean away.  He’s barely had time to think that thought before Dean reaches out and takes his hands, interlacing their fingers.  

“I’m sorry,”  Castiel says, and shakes his head, smiling in spite of himself.  “I’m sorry.  I’m terrible at this even under typical circumstances.”

“That makes two of us.”  Dean shrugs.  “You want to go to the Galley, brew up some caf?”

“Goddess, yes.”

Dean grins and rolls back onto his heels.  He stands, keeping hold of one of Cas’ hands to pull him up.  They stand there for a moment, close enough to kiss again, and it’s all Castiel can do to take a step toward the corridor instead of closing the gap between them.   

 

# # # 

 

If he’s being practical, Sam knows he shouldn’t have ordered a second round of drinks.  But maybe he’s too practical too much of the time.  The alcohol has him feeling good, loose-limbed and relaxed for the first time since he left Hosnian Prime.  Maybe even longer. 

Maybe Dean’s been onto something this whole time.

“So anyway,” Ruby says, gesturing with her swizzle stick, “the power grid goes down, and Shal’tiik gets locked in the library.  And normally that wouldn’t be a problem, except that she was mid-cycle.  Which, you know, environmental stressors and all...”

Sam groans.

“So then Alenn pulls this [fusion cutter](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Fusioncutter/Legends) out of his bag.  And we’re all like,  _ why do you even have that, _ and he’s like  _ because last time this happened I got caught in a fresher!   _ Which, okay, fair’s fair, but it was hard enough to convince the local government to let us dig, and if you start taking apart public property --”

“Oh no.”

“-- which he then promptly does by  _ cutting the lock out. _ ”

“Oh  _ no _ .”

“Just in time for the constabulary droid to come around the corner.”

He laughs.  He can see the whole thing playing out in his mind in eerie clarity: Ruby and her classmates shouting at their friend, the cop droid busting them, her other friend awkwardly trapped in the building…

“Which is how I ended up with a lifetime ban on [Thabeska](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Thabeska).”  She grins, swirls her drink, finishes it off.  “So.  What about you?  Your dad’s a bounty hunter.  You’ve got to have a few stories.”  

Sam licks his lips, looks down at his drink.  “Not as many as you’d think.”

“Not even one?” she coaxes, her smile almost sly.  

“Not about the hunting,” he says before he can really think about it, and tilts his head to the side.  Talking to Ruby is easy.  She’s funny and smart and she’s got a good laugh.  “Dean and me, though?  Okay.  So.  There was this one time on [Chandrila](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Chandrila)...”

Ruby grins, leans in, and listens.

 

# # # 

 

Dean cradles the mug of caf in his hands and bites his lip.  

Reality has settled over him since he and Cas kissed in the hold, and with it an awkward silence that reminds him more than a little bit of the way to Takodana.  The impulse to withdraw to the engine section is real, but here he is anyway.  And here Cas still is, too, sitting close enough that their knees touch.  He fidgets with his mug and wills himself to look up at Cas, who looks like he’s expecting words to come out of his mouth.  

Instead, he fumbles his mug.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he snaps, only barely catching it before it tips over completely.  “See, and this is why we can’t have nice things,” he quips as he leans over for a towel to clear away the mess.  

“I see it’s your fine motor control that makes you such a successful bounty hunter.”

“Damn right.”  He winks, tosses the towel into the sink.   

A slow smile creeps across Cas’ face.  His eyes flick up to meet Dean’s.  And hell, there’s no way he could walk away from that look.  Even if he did hide in the engine section again, this ache in his chest would follow him there.  He wants Cas to look at him like that every damn day.  

“So, uh, you get that I’m broken, right?  Like, more than the literal bomb in my skull to match whatever Alistair left ticking away?”

Cas snorts.  “If you’re laboring under the misunderstanding that I’m well and whole, I’d like to remind you that I have, in the last thirty-six hours, both fled from a simple repair  _ and  _ had to resort to deep meditation to prevent a potentially destructive panic attack during lift-off.”

“I think I said something about hating putting you through that back on Takodana.”

“You did, yes.”  Cas reaches out, fingers brushing Dean’s bruised knuckles before fitting themselves against his hand.

“I’m just saying, uh.  I mean.  Even when I try to...”  He trails off, bites his lip.  “I had a thing going for a while with a pilot stationed out on [Mirrin Prime](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Mirrin_Prime).  Republic Fleet.  Kind of a hot-shot, wasted on patrols.  It wasn’t...I don’t think we were serious.  More like we made time whenever I was in the sector.”

“How’d it end?”

“He disappeared.”  Dean runs his thumb over Cas’ knuckles.  He’s surprised how much the loss still stings.  “Nobody could tell me what happened.  I thought about tracking him down, but...well.  At the time I thought, uh...I don’t know.  Like it clarified some things for me.”

“About attachments.”  

“Yeah.”  He grimaces, both at the thought and the growing ache at the base of his skull.

“Are you alright?”

“Sorry.”  He shakes his head to clear it.  “The local where they cortexed me is wearing off, and my sleep-per-cycle ratio is screwed.  I should probably grab a couple of [stimpills](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Stimpill) and take stick for Jo until [Corsin](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Corsin)\--”

“Or you could get some rest.”

“What, with Sam’s girlfriend in there?”  His eyes dart up in the general direction of the berths, exactly one of which is occupied.  Now  _ that’s  _ a whole different ball of roiling shit to cope with in his guts.  “Not a chance.”  

“It doesn’t have to be in the berths.”

“I think Jo’ll notice if we build a pillow fort in the hold, Cas.”

“I’ve never built a pillow fort,” Cas says as he reaches out, rearranging them on the bench seat, Dean leaning back against him.  “I’ve heard they’re nice.”

“Yeah, they’re, uh...they’re pretty okay.”  It feels strange to nestle up this, like he’s going to be too heavy or awkward, but Cas seems fine with him here in his arms.  He hesitates for just a moment before resting his head back on Cas’ chest.  “Is this alright?”

Cas nods.  “It’s good, yes.”

"Yeah.  It is, isn't it,” he says, and settles in a little more comfortably.  He’s not quite relaxed, but that’s less about being here with Cas and more about everything else weighing down on him: Dad, everyone’s expectations, this thing in his head.  “Hey, Cas?”

“Mm?”  

“You still got that crystal?”

Castiel reaches into his pocket for the pouch.  Dean can’t see his face, but he thinks he can nearly sense the reverence in the way Cas handles it, even while he holds it where Dean can see it.  He lets Cas lace their fingers together so they can hold it together against his chest.

The connection isn’t immediate.  It’s gentle, like the ripple of water against the shoreline, rising slowly with the tide.  It’s soothing -- it reminds him a little of the spice he’d been using to sleep back on the  _ Impala _ \-- but instead of clouding his faculties, he feels focused.  Clear, even.

_ Trust me, _ Cas tells him, somewhere deep where their minds meet.   

Dean smiles and closes his eyes.

 

# # # 

 

“So anyway,” Ruby says, and slides a datapad Sam’s way.  “Here’s what I’ve got so far.  It’s tricky, like I said.  A lot of it is probably religious symbolism.”  

Sam picks it up and reads aloud.

_ “Daughter of the Forge of Stars _ __  
_ Queen-Knight Abaddon _ __  
_ Created the Spear. _ __  
_ Its eyes are infinite,  _ __  
_ All hands belong to it.  _ __  
_ Slaves are made one to it, _ __  
_ Eternal and eclipsed  
_ __ By Her unyielding Shadow”

“Like I said,” Ruby says, reaching for her glass.  “Flowery stuff.”

“Any idea what it means?”

She shrugs and takes a drink.  “Knight-Queen might be a title under some old Sith sect or another, or a culture associated with [Korriban](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Korriban).  The “Forge of Stars” is mythic; some kind of creator-destructor referenced in the old [Rakatan](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Rakata) stuff.  There may be some historic basis for it, but my credits are on it being the tool of an ancient demigod.”

“And the rest?”

“Worshippers subordinate to the will of the Knight-Queen?  Your guess is as good as mine.  My Professor thought that the Spear was a symbolic unifier, or symbolic of an armada’s power.  He speculated it might have been something like a battle standard, or part of a cultural or cult identity.”  She flags down the bartender, then returns her attention to Sam.  “I’ve got more, but it’s serious gibberish.  This at least kind of looks like poetry.”  

“Any chance I could have a look anyway?”

Ruby takes back the datapad, her fingers brushing Sam’s just enough that he can’t  _ not  _ notice.  “Yeah, let me send you what I’ve got.”

“Thanks,” he says, and means it.  Even a dead end is something for him and Bobby to work on while they wait for Dean to get back.  “Weird question, but you didn’t happen to spot anything about Alderaan in there?”

“Alderaan?”  She raises her eyebrows.  “No, not that I remember.  Why?”

“Just a weird hunch.”  Sam shakes his head, affects a smile.  “Anyway, what else are you working on?”

 

# # # 

 

Dean lands them on Corsin while Jo preps the cargo.  

The client was cagy, and she’s got only enough info to make the drop and not much else. Which, honestly, is par for the course.  Smuggling: sometimes the less you know the better.   

Jo takes point with Dean playing hired muscle -- the mutiny is apparently still on, even without Nar Shadda in the bag -- and they’re in place at the appointed time to meet the contact: a young woman with a long braid of aggressively red hair.  She wears no insignia, but the cut of her jacket says Resistance, and while she acts like she’s alone, Dean’s smart enough to know the weedy guy a couple of tables over and his antique [IG-100](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/IG-100_MagnaGuard) are there to make sure things go smoothly.  

Dean gives him a wink on the way out, but ends up flustered when the guy -- Aaron, apparently -- returns the gesture and offers him his comms details.

“I can’t take you anywhere,” Jo teases him on the way back to the  _ Chevelle.   _ “What’s the betting him and the droid are a package deal?”

“Oh, that’s…”  He covers his eyes with his hand and groans.  “Jo, I can’t unsee that.”

“Hey, you’re the one who made a pass.” she says, and grins as they enter the spaceport.  

“Yeah, because I got bored watching you making eyes with Moondock--”

“Moon _door_.”

Dean snorts.  “Whatever.”  

“Well, since the hot space witch is apparently off-limits--”

As if on cue, Dean’s commlink chirps.  He shoots Jo a look and unclips it from his coat.  “Yeah, what’s up?”

“Customs just arrived in port.”  Castiel’s voice is tinny over the link, but his concern is evident.  “Nothing serious yet, but I overheard someone mention they may try to close the dock.”

“Shit.”  Dean looks at Jo.  “We have anything we shouldn’t?”

She shakes her head.  “Cargo’ll be in holding by now.  Any contraband we’ve got is personal.  Which, given who we are...”

“Right.”  Dean pushes the button on his commlink.  “Cas?  I hate to ask you this, can you start pre-flight?” 

“Already on it,” he answers.  “But if they get close to shutting down the dock, I don’t...um.  I’m not sure....”

“I know.  You won’t have to.  Just hang tight.  I’ve got a plan,” he says, surveying the crowd before turning his attention back to Jo.   

She gives him a warning glare.  “Dean--”

“Head to the dock via the main walkway,” he tells her, then breaks away, hurrying toward the nearest service corridor.  He’s hardly in the door before he hears her voice over the comms.  

“You gonna let the rest of us in on this plan of yours?”

“Getting there,” he replies, making his way down the corridor, scanning the walls for access panels.  “Cas, in the cockpit, on the copilot side, there’s going to be a bank of green and yellow toggles.  See them?”

“Yes.”  

“Good.  Flip the second yellow and the third and fifth green ones.”  Dean nods at a pair of passing dockworkers and keeps walking.  He counts silently to ten, waiting for them to react.  When nothing happens, he glances over his shoulder.  Behind him, the workers continue their walk, oblivious.  

Thank fuck.  

Dean lets out a quiet sigh of relief, then turns the corner and starts scanning the walls for access panels.  “You get those toggles, Cas?”

“Should it be humming?”

“Yep.”  He spots a panel a few sections down and jogs over to inspect it, running his fingers around the edges to find the release tabs.  “Now put your fingers on both sixes and wait for my signal.”  

The panel comes loose with minimal force, and Dean takes stock of what he sees behind it, running his fingertips along the banks of comms circuitry until he spots what they need.  He pulls a small silver cylinder out of his jacket pocket, twists the end to free the contacts, and jams it into place.

It sparks briefly, welding itself into the guts of the panel.  

“You ready, Cas?”

“Yes.”

“Awesome.  Hit it, then flip everything back into home position but those sixes.”  He picks up the panel and fits it back into place.  “Any joy?”

“If by ‘joy’ you mean I’m hearing what seems to be the entirety of this spaceport’s main and security comm channels, then yes.”

“Perfect.  Put ‘em through to my commlink.  Jo, you there yet?”  

“Just about.  Dean, what are you--”

Jo’s voice is drowned out almost immediately by multiple channels of radio chatter.  He closes his eyes and listens to the competing conversations, orders, queries.  He can’t possibly catch everything, but it gets him the main points.

Someone’s been made, and it ain’t them, but he’s got a funny feeling about who.  He checks his blaster, then digs in his jacket for another device: a tap detonator.  

With a practiced movement, he adjusts the volume levels on his commlink to keep the port’s channels audible, but low enough that he can hear Cas and Jo.  

“Jo, you on board yet?”  

“Barely,” she snaps.  “Where the hell are you?"

“Start takeoff.”  Dean slips out of the service corridor and back into the main spaceport.  “I’ll catch up.”  

He disregards Jo’s angry string of Dosh in his ear and buys a frozen drink from a passing vendor.  He even springs for the funny straw, like a tourist, and meanders up the stairs to the observation deck, scanning the crowd near the bays.

It only takes a minute to spot the secs, gliding through the crowd, moving toward the bays.  He scans the crowd for Moondoor and curses under his breath when he spots her -- flanked Aaron and his droid -- apparently oblivious and headed in the same direction.  

“Here goes nothing,” he murmurs to himself, and tips his drink over the edge of the railing and onto a crowd of unsuspecting travelers.

He moves casually toward a flight of stairs to the downward path.  The shouts from below aren’t a significant diversion, but they enough attention that he can duck behind an information kiosk and fire two shots into a lighting fixture between himself and Moondoor’s team.  

It sparks, swings, and comes crashing down into an open seating area, sending travelers scattering.  Better, it creates a state of civilian panic.

Which, thank whatever gods look after scum like him, damn well draws Moondoor’s attention.  She scans the scene, spots Dean, and offers him a broad grin and a salute before turning her crew away and disappearing back into the crowd. 

“You off the ground yet or what?” he hisses into his comm as he slips into the throng.  The security channels are catching up with reality, focus shifting from enforcement to damage control.  

“We’re in atmo.  What the hell is going on down there?” 

“Minor disturbance.  Nothing to be concerned about.”  As if on cue, the port’s fire alarm begins to blare.  Dean moves with the wave of panic, shoving and squeezing through until he manages to slip free near the southern edge of the debarkment zone.  He ducks into a corridor that leads to a nearby parking structure and reaches into his pocket for the tap detonator.  “You’re gonna want to turn off that comm tap, by the way.”   

“Why?” Cas asks, his frown practically audible.  “What are you--” 

Dean pushes the button.  He winces at the brief squeal of feedback as the comms channels he’s been tapped into short into one another before falling silent.  

“So is this level of terrorism typical of your operations?” Cas asks.  

“No,” Jo answers before Dean can reply.  “Sometimes he holds heads of state hostage by mistake.”

“That was  _ one time _ ,” Dean snaps.  “And it was an accident.   _ And _ we still got paid.”

“Which after the fines worked out to how much again?”

“Shut up and fly south,” he grumbles, and starts looking for a speeder to steal.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- So if you read Before The Awakening, you probably already have [a guess about who that pilot is](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Poe_Dameron).  
> \- Yes, that's Charlie. And yes, that's Aaron Bass and his golem equivalent as her security detail.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the past -- immediate and longer term -- comes back to haunt Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester tops up his drug stash, and Jo and Cas are everybody's favorite two-person death machine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **IMPORTANT NOTE: This chapter contains the emotional aftermath of something which is definitely under the Big Dubcon Umbrella(TM). More details in the end notes.**

Sam’s hungover when Bobby wakes him, pushes a glass and a couple of pills into his hands, and tells him to hit the fresher.

“Your brother just dropped out of hyperspace.  Best get yourself in order.”  

He blinks up at Bobby, then watches him turn and disappear into the still-dark hallway.  With a groan, he pops the pills into his mouth, then washes them down.  The water doesn’t sit easy on his stomach.

The night comes back to him in flashes as he digs clean clothes out of his pack and shuffles across the hall.  Drinks at the bar, Ruby’s translations, laughing and telling stories, more drinks, the walk back to her flat. 

Things get fuzzier from there, but he remembers enough: the taste of her lips, the sweet grind of her hips...  

He feels the weight of the ring hanging from his neck and he scrambles to yank it off.  It falls to the fresher floor with his clothes and he stares at it, cupping his hands over his mouth like leaving it open would let the distress building in his chest come howling out.  His guts twist as he stares at it.  

Was he wearing it in Ruby’s bed?  He can’t remember.  

Sam reaches down, knocks it through the grate of the vent.  He's only half-sure it's an accident.  It clatters into the dark, out of sight, out of reach.  He stands, squeezes his eyes shut.  Runs his hands through his hair.  Clenches his fists.  Forces himself to breathe.  He needs to get clean.  He can do that.  

Bobby’s fresher has never been luxurious, and Sam turns the resonators up maybe a little higher than he needs to.  The vibrations are on the very edges of his hearing, making his teeth ring, and he welcomes it.  He rubs absently at his skin as the fresher unit works, as if the added friction will scrub the guilt from his skin.  It runs a first cycle, then a second.  Begins a third.

_ Nobody has to know.   _

His skin’s unmarked as far as he can tell, and he’s vaxxed.  His thumb runs over the contraceptive subdermal in his arm -- Jess’ idea, he remembers with an odd mix of relief and resignation -- and sets his jaw.  He stares at his hands as the sonic waves scrub away any lingering trace of betrayal from his body.

It’s worse, somehow, without the evidence.

Sam switches off the fresher and steps out onto the mat.  The pills Bobby handed him are kicking in, and he’s waking up enough to arrange his thoughts while he gets dressed.  

Last night was a bad dream.  Today is real.  

He picks up his soiled clothing, carries it to the room he’s been sharing with Dean, and shoves them into a laundry bag, then gets his other things in order.  There’s no way he’s sharing a room with Dean with Jess back, and anyway, they’re not likely to be on Agamar much longer than it takes for Dean to finish repairs on the  _ Impala. _

Satisfied, he leaves his pack on the bed and heads downstairs.

 

# # #  

 

Jess holds the handles of her bag with both hands and shifts awkwardly as she waits for the ship’s ramp to descend.  

After everything, she should be grateful.  Instead she’s tired, worn down by the knowledge that these are her only possessions, that her whole world is gone, that maybe she doesn’t really know Sam as well as she thought.  

She glances at Castiel.  He’s kept more than a respectful distance since joining her here.  No surprise there, given how much effort she’s put into deflecting his concern.  Jo’s, too.  Of all of them, only Dean has steered entirely clear, even avoiding the berths for the duration.  

Now that they’re on the ground and it’s too late, she worries about how that’s going to reflect on her with Sam.  Whatever, whoever, Sam really is, she’s never known him to be anything but loyal, and alienating Dean and his crew won’t make any of this easier.

“Alright, kids.  Here’s hoping you’ve got everything you brought with you,” Dean calls out, his boots clanking on the steps as he descends.  Jo joins them a moment later.  He nods at Castiel, who reaches out and pushes a pair of buttons.  The hatch pops free with a soft hiss, then hinges down to form a set of stairs between them and the planet’s surface.  

She starts down the steps and then stops.  They’re not in a spaceport.  They’re in an open area, illuminated only by a pale predawn sky, and surrounded by trees and rusting wreckage.  

“Jess?”

She spots Sam standing next to what looks like a broken-down speeder, hands deep in his pockets.  He’s wearing an unfamiliar coat against the morning chill, looking up at her with wide eyes.  

Her feet move without her asking them to, carrying her down the rest of the way and closing the distance between them.  The bag falls from her hand to the ground somewhere between the ramp and his embrace.  She tucks her face under his chin and wraps her arms around his waist under his coat.  She lets out a sob as his hand finds her hair, and she breathes in his smell.  It occurs to her dimly that she’s too overwhelmed to pay attention to the words he murmurs into her ear, or that she’s crying too hard to speak.

 

# # # 

 

Rooms are reshuffled.  Jo takes Castiel’s space in Bobby’s study, with Sam and Jess taking her old spot in the guest room, and Castiel in Sam’s old bunk.

Dean, the only one without things to move, pours himself a mug of caf and settles onto the back porch.  He’s time-lagged, but the sun’s barely up and his ship’s still busted.  Better to stay up through the day and get something done.

“You know, I could just take Sam’s bed instead of sleeping in the damn front room,” Jo teases as she joins him.  “I mean, it’s not like you two will be using it, right?”  

Dean glowers at her from behind his mug of caf.  

She shrugs.  “Fine.  Whatever.  What’s the plan?”

“Well, Bobby says he and Sam are still working on something solid.  Meantime, I’ve got to get the ship up and running.”  He takes a small tin out of his pocket, shakes out a stimpill, and swallows it before passing one to Jo.  “That’ll be easier now that I can afford to order some decent parts, but I’m guessing three or four days at best.”

“Too bad you already cut the panels,” she says.  “That long in a real shipyard--”

“Bobby’s lot is as real a yard as my baby needs.”  He gulps down the rest of his caf and stands.  “Sam and Jess getting settled in?”

She shrugs.  “Door’s closed up there, so I guess so.  I’m having trouble squaring those two.  Your brother’s a good kid, but I’ve met frozen moons warmer than her.”

“Yeah, well, her system’s dead.  I figure she’s entitled.”  He cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders.  He’s got his own irrational issues with Jess, but he’s not going to let them get in the way.  “I’m going to head into town, get the money end of things figured out.  You want to come along?”

“Nah.  I figure your boyfriend and I can play with knives or something.”

Dean turns away with a snort.  He knows Jo’s giving him a hard time, but his heart does a funny thing when she calls Cas his boyfriend.  Not that that’s what he and Cas are.  Not yet at least.  Maybe not ever.  It’s a nice idea for a daydream, though, and he indulges it on his way to the shed where his speeder bike sits waiting for him, curiously askew.

Dean frowns, gently rights it, and gives it a quick once-over.

There’s no damage, and the ignition hasn’t been tampered with, but it’s lower on fuel than he left it, and there’s a new scratch on one of the intakes where it fell.  Easy enough to fix, but the idea of Sam being careless with his bike puts his teeth on edge.

“Remind me to tell my dumbass little brother to get his own damn bike,” he says, fingertips brushing over the handlebars before he takes his place in the saddle and engages the repulsors.

 

# # #

 

Sparring with Jo is a unique challenge.  She compensates for her stature with a combination of speed and brutality.  Like Dean, she grew up fighting for her life, but the stakes in the colony were different, and it shows.  Even with his abilities, she’s difficult to keep up with, and that fact seems to fill her with a fierce sort of joy.  

The two of them take advantage of the open area of the salvage yard, giving chase through the stacks of wrecked speeders, junked ship sections, and abandoned building materials.

Castiel senses the thrown stone before it can strike him.  He shifts his weight and turns to catch it, then spins around to block Jo’s overhead strike.  “I should be grateful you’re throwing stones instead of blades.”

“You’ve got two kidneys, right?”  She grabs him by the wrist and slams a booted foot into his chest, knocking him back.  “How many do you really need?”

“Just the one, technically,” he answers through gritted teeth as she drives him back toward the wreck of an old Imperial walker.  “But it’s nice to have one in reserve.”

He lets her push, pretends to be at more of a disadvantage than he is before using her momentum against her and pushing her into the side panel of the walker.  He presses the flat of his blade to her neck for only a second before dropping it to his side.  “Best of three?”

“Nah,” she says, slipping her knives into their scabbards, and taking a seat on a convenient bit of salvage.  She scrubs the sweat from her forehead with her sleeves and arranges her lekku to catch the best breeze. “Tied one each is good for me.”

Castiel nods, pulls the water bottle from his belt, and takes a long drink before passing it to Jo.  

“So how’s Dean doing?”

“You could ask him yourself,” Castiel says, eyeing the horizon.  Facing away from the city, he can almost imagine that the green goes on forever.  It reminds him of Takodana.  

“And he’d tell me to kriff off,” she passes the water back to him.  

He takes another sip, clips the bottle back to his belt.  

“Cas.”

“He’s determined to carry it all on his own,” Castiel says, careful to choose an answer that would only be a secret to someone unfamiliar with Dean’s habits.

“Typical.”  She kicks at the gravel with her boot and grumbles something in a language he doesn’t understand before giving him a sideways look.  “You’ll tell me if I can help, right?”

“Of course.”

“Because if you don’t, I’m definitely throwing knives next time.”

He chuckles.  “Noted.”

 

# # # 

 

They spend the better part of the day in bed.

Not the way the others are imagining, probably, but just curled against one another in silence, fingers laced together.  

Sam isn’t sure what he feels.  Everything has changed -- not just for him, but for Jess -- since Dean asked him to come help find their dad.  Their lives were simple, clean, and laid out before them.  Now they’re both adrift, clinging to one another in a dark room on a small green dot on the Rim, with barely more than they can carry.  

(No, that’s not right.  He’s back where he started.  He’s lost, what, a few years and a career trajectory?  But Jess…)

He wants to cling to her because she’s his light, his heart, pushing him to do and be more than he ever imagined he could.  Instead,he finds he’s holding her because he’s afraid that if he doesn’t, she’ll vanish.  

Eventually, in halting sentences, Jess tells him about Andara.  The kidnapping, the isolation, how her choices were compliance or death.  How even in her last moments of captivity, she was pushed to her knees and made to believe she was about to be executed.  

“He told me I was lucky to be worth taking for ransom,” she says flatly.  “Whatever that means.”

The silence hangs between them.  He can’t move.

“I’d be dead if you weren’t...whatever you were.  Are,” she says.  “And I don’t know how I feel about it.  I don’t know how I feel about anything.  The whole world is gone, and I’m just...what’s left.  You’re the only thing that feels solid, and I’m afraid I don’t even know you.”

“So ask.”  

“No.”  Jess shakes her head.  “Later.  I just need something to be easy.  Just for a while.”

“Okay.”  

Sam closes his eyes.  He’s alive, Jess is alive, and they’re together.  He hopes it’s enough.  

 

# # # 

 

It’s hard to say goodbye to an honest-to-anything aurodium ingot.  Not just because of the obvious allure of holding something that valuable in his hands, but the value of the thing itself limits his options.  

Back in the Core, it’d be easier, but out here he can cash out without leaving a trail between the ingot itself and the funds it becomes.  He rarely has wealth, but he’s daydreamed about it enough to do it right at least.  He spends hours dealing with various syndics, bankers, dealers, and backroom traders and comes out with a handful of numbered accounts, credit chips, and a smattering of hard currencies.

He orders the parts he needs to repair and upgrade the  _ Impala  _ between trades and he’s quietly proud of his efficiency when he finishes by early afternoon.  It’s something that’s always felt like an open secret -- Sam never noticed it, and Dad either never cared or didn’t think it was worth commenting on -- but he likes that he’s good at this part.  Negotiation, acquisition, logistics.  Finishing up the shit work leaves him time to explore the city.  

Everything might be fucked, but at least he’s got the means to enjoy things for little while.  He grabs some savory fritters from a street vendor and watches kids play in the fountains in Civic Square while he eats.  He smiles as he remembers the look on Bobby’s face the first time he and Sam showed up sodden and dirty, and with bruises from a scuffle with a gang of local kids.  Of course, the other kids hadn’t counted on him and Sam already having had a few years of hand-to-hand combat training.  It was a good day.

(He’s aware of, but does not engage, the thought that he’d have given anything for Sam to have been like those other kids, or the near-physical ache that accompanies it.  Instead, Dean finishes his food, brushes his hands on his pants to clean away the crumbs, and tosses the wrapper in a refuse bin so he can get back to business.)    

He makes a couple more stops before he heads back to Bobby’s.  He hits up a street dealer, replenishes his personal stock (with a little extra just in case he needs pocket money later), and then pays a visit to a grey-market surplus gear shop with a nice supply of backroom stock.  He browses the aisles for ammo charges and a few upgrades, and puts in his order: a few goodies for his and Jo’s field kit, better equipment to bring Cas’ gear up to spec, and a new basic load-out for Sam.  

As an afterthought, he adds in a blaster and a stunner for Jess.  It’s not like she’s trained, or they’re on any kind of speaking terms, but he didn’t sell himself into goddamn indenture just to leave her defenseless.

His last stop is....well, it’s an impulse, really, that takes him into the small parlor.   

He’s not sure how many times he’s passed it over the years.  It’s not the sort of place people like him go -- expensive baubles, old things, impractical tchotchkes -- but he tucks his hands in his pockets and peers into the cabinets with untrained curiosity.  

“Are you a collector?”

“Me?”  Dean looks up at the shopkeeper droid, surprised.  “No.  Just, uh...I’ve never been in here.  Thought I’d check it out.”   

“We cater to the curious and expert alike,” the droid replies brightly before reaching into a case to retrieve a piece of jewelry.  “For example, this necklace here is strung with beads of Manaxian amber, with a fossil pendant from Chandrila.  An exotic yet understated gift for a loved one or trading partner.”

Dean nods.  He’s got a general idea of the value of the piece, but he’s unaccustomed to the pitch being directed at him quite like this.  “It’s, uh, nice.”

The droid bows slightly and returns it to the case.  “Perhaps, if jewelry isn’t what you’re looking for, may I suggest a portion of a Classical [Massassi](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Massassi) bas relief from Yavin IV, appropriate for the sitting room or study?”

“I, uh.  No thanks.”  

“We also have--”

“Yeah, no, I’m good.”  He turns on his heel, and moves to leave.

The droid clamps its hand down on his shoulder.  “Wait.”

“Get your damn hand off me.”  

“Dean Winchester.  I have a message--”

He jams his blaster in the joint between the droid’s waist and torso and smiles, teeth gritted, when it releases him.  “How the hell do you know who I am?”

“Bela Talbot, a client in my database, sent out a distress call with limited audio and visual data, but after analysis--”

“ _ Senator  _ Bela Talbot?”  Dean blinks, tilts his head.  

“Indeed,” the droid says, puffing up.  “Her directive to our network was to ask for your assistance specifically.”

“My  _ assistance? _  That bitch sold me off to the highest bidder by way of the Secs.  The only assistance Bela Talbot’s going to get from me is assistance into the nearest convenient airlock.”

The droid reaches into a compartment and extracts a data stick and a glossy credit chip.  “Did I mention how much she’s offering to pay?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Dubcon incident occurs offscreen, with Sam experiencing the emotional aftermath of realizing that he and Ruby had a drunken sexual encounter that he would not have consented to under normal circumstances.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which notes are compared, unfortunate truths are revealed, and Dean can't take off his own boots.

It’s nearly sundown when Dean ambles in through Bobby’s kitchen door, dusty from the road.  He can hear voices in the front of the house -- happy chatter, laughter -- and the comfort of it washes over him as he shucks off his jacket and grabs a beer.  

Jo’s telling a story about a run on the edge of the Mid-Rim, with Bobby filling in the occasional bit of trivia when Dean comes in.  He leans against the doorframe instead of looking for a seat.  Not that there’s really anywhere to sit with six of them and an akk dog that thinks it belongs in Sam’s lap.  

“I was starting to wonder if you forgot the way back,” Bobby grumps, but raises his own bottle Dean’s way.  “There’s some dinner left if you’re hungry.”  

“Thanks,” he says.  “What’d I miss?”

“Just those two hiding in their room and Cas cheating at Junk Hunt,” Jo says, punching Cas in the arm with a grin.  Cas, to his credit, laughs.

“I didn’t cheat.  I used the tools at my disposal.”   

“Space witch.”

“Assassin.”  

“Eh,” she rolls her eyes, and settles back into her seat.  “What about you?  Any good news?”

“Little bit, yeah,” Dean says.  

He tosses her a code cylinder, then tosses a second to Cas.  Sam only just catches the third.  “New work accounts and gear should be here in the morning.  Also got an order in on some parts that’ll have us up and running again within the week.  Which--” he says as he plugs a data chip into Bobby’s holo viewer “--is a good thing, considering the job I picked up on the way out of town.”  

A fuzzy surveillance image pops up in the air above the viewer, scan lines wobbling as the image is drawn and redrawn in midair.

Jo’s mouth drops open.  

Sam sits up, eyes wide.  “Is that--”

“Yeah,” Dean says with a nod, eyes fixed on the image of a Zabrak, yellow eyes washed out in the blue monochrome display, but no less familiar.  “It’s him.  And this time we’ve got a name and a way to track him.”

“We have to call Dad.”

Dean forces his eyes to stay on the holo, and his thumbs to stay where they are, hooked in his pockets.  “Yeah.  You make any progress on how to do that while I was gone?”

Sam’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t say anything; that’s answer enough.  

“Go get your notes.”  Dean says, and turns away, heading for the stairs.  “We’ll meet back here in ten.”

 

# # # 

 

Castiel follows a moment later, giving Jo’s shoulder a squeeze on his way past.  

He finds Dean in his -- their? -- bedroom, sitting on the nearer of the two beds, holding John’s datapad.  Even if Dean’s distress didn’t radiate off of him like sharp, white static, it would be apparent.  

Quietly, he steps in, closing the door behind him.  What Dean wants or needs isn’t entirely clear, but being present is as good a first step as any.  

“I should want to call him,” Dean says, turning the datapad in his hands.  “But I don’t.”

“I imagine you think he wouldn’t answer.”

“No.”  Dean huffs out a rough breath, not quite a laugh, and shakes his head.  “It’s because he might.”

The images come unbidden: distress calls and cries for help unanswered long before this, even before Sam left.  Weeks starving on various stations, scamming for credits to keep food and shelter secure.  Selling what he could scrounge, steal, or do -- whatever a buyer would take -- to keep Sam safe and well.  Dean picking up the pieces every time John disappeared, sacrificing comfort and safety because this was just as important as knowing how to track, fight, and kill, and if he held on just a little longer, it would all be over and done and maybe then...

“Anyway.  It doesn’t matter what I want,” Dean says, rubbing at his eye with the back of his hand before he stands.  “We got work to do.”  

 

# # # 

 

For all that this feels like a normal op, Jo knows better than to trust it.  She knows Dean well enough to see the tells -- there’s something brittle just below the surface -- but she also knows better than to bring them up.  He’s a friend, and what he needs right now is something to work the way it’s supposed to.  

So she does her damn job.

It takes the better part of an hour to lay out the pieces of what they know, fitting them together, adjusting them, building on the bigger structure until it starts to take shape.  

“So his name’s Azazel,” Dean says, adjusting the holo.  “Free agent, more or less, but he’s still guild, and friendly with a couple of syndicates.  None of which, by the way, have a bounty up for Senator Talbot.”

Jo tilts her head.  “So it’s a private contract?”

“Looks like,” he says, closing the image and opening the tracker log.  “Sam, you said you and Bobby found a ton of irregularities, like she owed someone some favors?”

“Yeah, for like ten years.  No names and not personal enough for it to be something that happened locally, but a big enough deal that she was acting for some pretty diverse, serious interests.”

“Meaning she made some kind of deal with a broker,” Bobby cuts in.  “Her diary helped us narrow it down to two or three names.”

“Anybody we know?” Jo asks.

“Hell, I hope not.  There’s Ellsworth, out of Nar Shadda.  Riskin moves around a lot.  Then there’s this red-eyed son of a kath hound named Crowley who--”

Jo chokes on her beer.  Castiel goes very still.  Jessica’s grip on Sam’s arm tightens.

“Let me guess,” Dean says.  “He does a lot of long-term contracts?”

“Sounds like you’ve met.”

“Yeah, you could say that.”  Dean rubs the back of his head and pointedly doesn’t look Sam or Jessica’s way.  “So how’s he connected to Lucifer or Azazel?”  

Bobby shrugs.  “Ain’t got the specifics, but he likes to cast a pretty wide net.  You want something, Crowley knows who can get it for you.  Only condition is you’ve got to join the favor network and jump when he tells you.”

“Okay,” Jo says and nods.  “So maybe Senator Talbot meant to pay someone with your dad, got you instead, you got out--”

“-- and Azazel goes out to collect.”  Sam sighs.  “And given what Alistair wanted from you--”

“Whoever wanted Dad wants the Spear, yeah.” Dean frowns.  “So this Spear thing, it’s a ship?”

“If it is, it’s old.  Like, ancient Sith Empire old.”  Sam slides the copy from Bobby’s book across the table, as well as a copy of what looks like decoded wartime communiques.  “The folks I talked to at the University were pretty sure it wasn’t real, but it looks like the Republic had  _ something  _ until Leia Organa took it out of play.”

“Right around the time Mom’s trail picks up on Sullust.”  Dean pinches the bridge of his nose.  “Mom was involved in the war?”

Bobby passes Dean a datapad.  “Barely.  We found a little bit of data about the Campbells.  It’s fragments -- they weren’t exactly movers and shakers -- but a few of them show up in some logs as security forces on Alderaan.  And your grandparents, Samuel and Deanna, were bounty hunters.”

“Which means Mom was a hunter.”

“Until Sullust,” Sam says.  “Everything she needed to get started, put together by a dozen different proxies, but if you dig back enough--”

“Let me guess: Organa again?” Dean passes Bobby back his datapad.  

Sam nods.  “Or her close advisors.”

Jo frowns.  “But if someone killed your mom because she had something to do with this Spear thing, why’s Lucifer hunting you guys now instead of the guy who killed her?”

“That’s the thing,” Sam says, pulling a list of deaths up on the holo.  “There’s no evidence anybody  _ knew _ about it.  But someone  _ did  _ figure out where she was from.  Sullust didn’t exactly side whole-heartedly with the Republic.  There was a whole rash of killings right around that time.  Political unrest.  Riots.  People hunting refugees.  Whoever put the contract on mom probably didn’t know anything except that her family was from Alderaan.  Whatever she had, Dad must have kept it, but--”

“Her locket.”  Dean takes a breath.  “That night, all Dad took was a couple of data sticks, his old war gear, and Mom’s locket.”  

The room goes quiet, both brothers pensive before Dean stands up and slams John’s datapad down.  “He knew.”

Sam blinks.  “What?”  

“He  _ knew. _  He fucking  _ knew. _  He figured the whole thing out -- the locket, Lucifer, Senator Talbot -- and he ditched us.  He ditched us, and...”  Dean clenches his fists and glares at the ceiling.  “Fuck this.  I’m done.”  

Jo stands as Dean storms out, moves to follow him, but Castiel puts an arm out to block her.  He shakes his head.  

“Well, that was dramatic,” Bobby says, reaching to turn off the holo.

“Screw you, Bobby Singer,” Jo snaps, cursing with her lekku as she turns back to face the table.  “Between getting his head scrambled by that sick Sith fuck and getting cortexed on Andara, maybe Dean’s entitled to a little drama.”

Sam blinks.  “Wait, what?”

“Yeah, the guy who owns Bela Talbot?  Your brother’s his now, too.  Didn’t he mention it?  No?”  Jo crosses her arms.  “Yeah, turns out your girlfriend’s pretty good bait if you want a pet bounty hunter.”  

“Jo--”  Cas touches her shoulder, but she jerks away.   

“No.  Somebody has to say this.  Dean’s always put himself on the line for Sam, for me, for you.  Hell, he did it for Jess, and she hates us.”  

Jessica sits up.  “I don’t--”  

Jo narrows her eyes.  “You wouldn’t even look any of us in the eye on the way here.”

“I lost my whole planet and got kidnapped by a  _ criminal! _ ” Jessica shouts, and gets to her feet.  “Do you think maybe I was scared, knowing what all of you are?  What you  _ do _ ?”  

“And what am I?” Jo asks, baring her teeth as she tilts her head to the side.  “What do I do, exactly?”  

“Enough.” Sam stands up and steps in front of Jessica.  “Jo, she’s a civilian, she doesn’t understand--”

“Yeah, well she’d better learn quick.  Some of you might put up with it, but I won’t.”  She looks at Cas.  “Come on.  Let’s find Dean.”

 

# # #

 

He’s in the cockpit of the  _ Impala  _ when they find him.  

It’s stuffy -- he doesn’t dare turn on the ventilation system with her cut open like this -- but it’s peaceful, and the stars are out, and B4-8Y’s presence is a comfort in ways he knows better than to try and explain to anyone.

“Took you long enough.”

“Your second-in-command needed to get some things off her chest before we came looking,” Cas says, hanging back as Jo drops into the copilot seat.

“And I was right about all of it.”  

“Yeah?” he says glancing back at Cas.  “Anything any of us are going to regret?”

“I told them you got cortexed.”

Cas crosses his arms and leans against the doorway.  “And she almost started a fight with Jessica.”

“Because she’s an ungrateful Core brat who doesn’t give two shits about hospitality!” Jo snaps.  

Dean groans and covers his eyes, but he smiles a little too.

“You can’t tell me I’m wrong.”  Jo turns and gestures Cas’ way.  “Am I wrong?”

“I haven’t really formed an opinion on the basis that she has thus far refused to interact with me directly.”  

“See?” she says, turning back to Dean.  “Anyway, it was...what did Bobby say?  Right.   _ Dramatic. _ ”

“Kinda getting that.”  Dean sighs and leans back in his seat.  “It’s funny.  I always had this picture in my mind of how we’d finally track that bastard down.  Me and Dad and Sam.  We’d pin him down in whatever hole he was hiding in and then that’d be it.”  

Jo fiddles with one of her lekku.  “Normal life?”

“Yeah.”  

She nods.  “You gonna try calling him?”

He shakes his head.  “Not tonight.” Dean says, and runs his thumb over the edge of the armrest before he stands and looks them both over.  “I need a drink.”

“Then let’s drink,” Cas says with a nod to Jo, who pulls a bottle from her jacket.  

Dean frowns.  “How’d you--”

“Dean, we’re hunters,” she says, twisting the cap off and passing the bottle to Dean.  “It’s like a primary feature of our lifestyle.”  

Cas settles down against the console in the space between their chairs and produces a bottle of his own from his jacket.  “Which is why I brought another one, just in case.”

Jo nods.  “And why I’ve also got a flask.”  

“Well then,” he says, and raises the bottle.  “To whatever the hell this is.”

“To the thing,” Jo agrees, and taps her flask against Dean’s and Cas’ bottles.  Cas and Dean follow suit.

The liquor burns warm and sweet.

 

# # # 

 

The house is dark by the time the three of them stumble in, tipsy and exhausted.  Jo vanishes into the dark of Bobby’s study, while Dean and Castiel struggle to ascend the stairs without waking up the entire house.

One of them missteps -- Castiel isn’t sure -- but they stumble up rather than down, and Dean lands on hands and knees with a dull thump.  

“Shh!” he hisses at the floor.

Castiel (mostly) succeeds in keeping his composure.  “Come on,” he whispers as he reaches out to help Dean up.  “Almost there.”

“Why’d you let me drink so much?”

“I wasn’t aware I was supposed to moderate your intake.”

Dean rolls his eyes and mutters something uncomplimentary about big words.

They make it to the bedroom door without further incident.  Dean pushes in through the door, takes a few wobbly steps, and then lets himself tip face first onto the bed.  Castiel follows, sits down heavy on the other bed, and sets to work undoing his boots and stripping off his outer layers.  

He’s down to his shorts and his soft undershirt and getting ready to crawl under the blankets when Dean pushes up onto his forearms and gives him an odd look.

“Is something wrong?”  

“Why’re you far?”

Castiel raises his eyebrows.  

“Stop being far.”  Dean rolls to the far side of his bed.  “C’mere.”

He hesitates only a second, then moves, taking a seat on the edge of Dean’s bed.  “You’re still wearing your boots.”  

“Screw it.”  Dean covers his face with his arm.  “Boots are hard.”

“Of course.”  Castiel smiles as he moves down the bed.  Affection warms him as much as the liquor burning its way through him as he works Dean’s boots and socks off, letting them drop to the floor one at a time.  “Are you planning on sleeping in all of that?”

“No.”  A pause.  “Maybe.”  Dean peers up at him, glassy eyed and flushed.  “Help me out of it?”

“How do you survive on your own?”  

Dean snorts.  “I’ve got no fucking idea.”  He undoes his belt and the fasteners on his pants, then raises his hips so that Castiel can pull them down his legs.  

His jacket’s a little trickier but they manage well enough, dropping it over the edge of the mattress.  Dean wriggles out of his shirts more or less on his own before falling back onto the mattress, supine and bare except for his shorts, and it’s all Castiel can do not to reach out and trace the freckled planes of Dean’s torso with his fingers.

Instead, he kicks the blankets down far enough to squirm underneath.  Dean lets out a little huff, then does the same.  They settle in, side by side, almost but not quite touching.  If he wasn’t both drunk and exhausted, it would be awkward.  As it is, he just feels a dull ache of affection, and a dim hint of arousal that he can (mostly) ignore.  

He closes his eyes.  

“Cas?”

“Mm?”

“When’s this thing with my head gonna get better?”  

He frowns, turns his head to look at Dean, who’s staring up at the ceiling.  “What do you mean?”

“When, uh...when Sam said I should call Dad, I think...I think I wanted to kill him.”  

Castiel rolls and sits up on his arm.

“I saw it.  In my head.  I grabbed my blaster and--”  Dean sucks in a breath.  “It was so fast, like the dreams, sort of.  Not like an urge, exactly, but it was just there, and--”  He swallows, looks up at Castiel.  “What’s happening to me?”

“Nothing,” he says and brushes his fingertips through Dean’s hair.  “ _ Nothing _ is happening to you.”  

“Doesn’t feel like nothing, Cas.  You told me that Alistair screwed me up bad.  What if it’s so bad you can’t fix it?  What if--”

He leans over, kisses the words off of Dean’s lips, one hand cradling his jaw.  “We’ll fix it,” he whispers, their foreheads pressed together.  “We will.  I swear we’ll fix it.”

“Okay, but if we can’t--”

“Dean--”

“If we can’t, I need you to promise you’ll take me out before I hurt Sam or Jo or--”

“Dean, no.”

“Please,” he says thickly, clutching at Castiel’s shirt.  “Just promise me, okay?”  

Castiel swallows thickly.  The idea of hurting Dean, of killing him, feels like cutting out his own heart.  But he sees the fear in Dean’s eyes, and he understands it.  Remembers his own first missteps learning about his capabilities.  The terror of it.  He nods, then presses a soft kiss to Dean’s forehead.  “Of course.”

Dean nods back, satisfied, then nestles up close, burying his face in Castiel’s chest.   

Castiel holds him, listening until Dean’s breaths slow and soften before he lets himself drift off to sleep.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which familiar faces return, sausage conceals a litany of sins, and Dean stays out past his bedtime with unexpected consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up that this chapter features some things about the effects of solitary confinement on individuals, which, if I wore a bonnet, would be a bee on the perpetual guest list.

Bela paces, dressed in the loose gear her captor gave her.  The light doesn’t change in this cage, but she tracks the number of times she sleeps with scratches on the panel next to the sink, the only surface soft enough to mark.  

Sometimes, when she tries to count them, she hallucinates, sees dozens of scratches on every panel of the room.  Or none at all.  Or finds them all over her skin instead.  

It’s evident that whoever is behind this wants her alive, at least for now.  She is given food and water, but nothing else.  There is no one to speak to.  Nothing to read.  Nothing to do.  She picks at the hem of her tunic, at the ragged fabric at her ankles.  Collects the fibers.  Lines them up on the blanket.  

She can hear him sometimes.  The ship is small, and she hears sounds.  She can’t make out his words, but he shouts occasionally, and is visibly frustrated sometimes when she can get a glimpse of him.  Something has stalled somewhere.  Something has gone wrong.  Negotiations, maybe.  

That is, unless, she’s hallucinating the voices.  She’s been alone long enough that her senses turn on her.  She talks to herself to remember how to speak.  There are whole swathes of time she can’t remember.  Has she slept?  Has she eaten?

She picks her hems some more, pulls a few strands free, lays them out neatly on her bunk with the others.

Only when it occurs to her that he’s been silent for a long while does she pull her smuggled commlink from its hiding place.  It’s a clever thing, designed to piggyback off the nearest array and to pull scraps of data from any system it can.  She’d struck lucky when it had unlocked the holo-recorder for her.  She’d known the moment she saw his face who he was, how valuable he was, what marvelous leverage he would be if only she could communicate that to the right parties.  

The diode flashes green, and she taps it to play the message it’s recorded.  

“Contact made; agreement has been made.”

Bela exhales, shakes, lets tears drop from her eyes without concern.  What was it her droids liked to thank?  The Maker?  She thanks the Maker.  Peers enlisted peers who enlisted peers who enlisted peers until they found the one person in the galaxy she knows will come, even if it’s not for her.  It’s too early to hope, but she does anyway, against her own better judgement.  

Dean Winchester is good at finding things.  Getting into things.  Surely he can find and get into this ship if she tells him where to look.

She twists the case on the commlink.  The diode shifts from green to blue, then begins to blink as it collects everything it can about her current location and sends it in reply.  When the light goes solid again, she twists the case back, then tucks it away.

For now, she will sleep.  When she wakes she will make another mark on the panel by the sink, and eat the unsavory paste her captor leaves her, and listen for hints that something, anything is changing.

 

# # # 

 

Castiel wakes up alone with a headache and the taste of death in his mouth.  Bright midday sun assaults him through the window.

He may have some regrets.  

Slowly, he puts on last night’s pants, chooses clean shirts from his pack, and crosses the hall to use the fresher.  It’s an unfamiliar unit, and antiquated to boot, but his hangover makes the experience even more miserable, every vibration of the sonic scrubbers sending little flashes of pain through his skull and leaving him queasy.  

By the time he descends the stairs, there are sounds in Bobby’s kitchen, and the smell of cooking food.  His stomach grumbles, and he winces at it.  Eating seems ambitious right now, but he’s thirsty, and the kitchen has water, and caf, and either might save his life right about now.

He steps into the kitchen and tries to remember which cupboard is which.

“Dean left those out for you,” Bobby says over his shoulder from his place at the griddle, gesturing at a glass of water and some vitapills.  “Said something about it being his turn, whatever that means.”  

The water alone is magical, and he nearly forgets to take the pills with it.  He refills the glass before leaning up against the counter and turning back Bobby’s way.  “Thank you.”

Bobby shrugs, continues cooking.  “He’s outside if you’re lookin’ for him.  Crates started showing up just before daylight.  Force only knows how he’s even going to get ‘em open.”

“I’m surprised he’s even vertical.”

Bobby makes a noncommittal grunt and dishes out some kind of hash from his skillet onto a plate of fry bread.  “There’s more there if you’re hungry.  It’s mugreube, but everything tastes about the same once you turn it into sausage.”

Castiel squints at his plate, then fixes himself a small portion.  There’s caf in the carafe as well, and he pours himself a cup before joining Bobby at the kitchen table.  

“I haven’t had a moment to thank you properly for lending us your ship, but I wanted to let you know I’m grateful.”  

“Yeah, well, gratitude and sixty credits’ll get you a nice dinner in town.”  

Castiel flinches, suddenly unsure of his welcome, and uncertain about whether the food in front of him is something he should eat.  If he’s unwelcome…

“And anyway, it’s what family does.  If Dean thinks you need a hand, so do I.”

“Oh.”  He swallows, blinks.  Stunned.

“Probably ought to eat that before it gets cold.  Sausage or not, the texture gets a little funny.”

He dutifully does as Bobby suggests.  He’s right, of course.  The mugruebe is surprisingly palatable in sausage format, and getting food on his stomach along with the vitapills does him a world of good.  

Afterward, he helps clean up his dishes, rinsing away the larger food particles before putting them into the washer.  “Where’s everyone else?”  

“Sam and Jess went into town.  I think Jo’s out there with Dean, but I wouldn’t swear to it.  She might be out in the shop.”  

“The shop?”

Bobby nods.  “Machine shop.  It’s out back a ways.  You’re welcome to use it if you need to fix your gear.  Plenty of stuff around the salvage yard for it.”  

“Thank you.”  Castiel’s fingers reflexively brush at the crystal in his pocket.  “I might just take you up on that.”

 

# # # 

 

He’s edgy about bringing Jessica into the city at first, but even a Rim city is more her element than Bobby’s house.  They wander the shopping district, getting drinks or street food when it suits them.  He watches as the tension in her unwinds, how she smiles more.  

And...well, he’s good.  Really, really good.   

“So you and your brother grew up here?”  

He shrugs.  “I mostly grew up on the  _ Impala _ .  But when we stayed planetside for any length of time, it was usually with Bobby.”  

“It’s funny.  Agamar’s such a backwater, people don’t really think about it having cities like this,” she says turning to take in the architecture.

Sam shrugs again.  “It’s Agamar.  The land is kind of what people do around here.”  

Jessica seems to ponder that.  Shakes her head.  “I’m sorry.  I’m basically insulting your homeworld.”  

“It's fine,” Sam says, brushing a strand of hair out of her face.  “Come on.  Let me show you the good stuff.”

They explore, hand-in-hand, checking out street vendors and shops.  They get lunch in a little cafe that Sam remembers from when he was a kid.  It’s Crescent Sea-style cuisine, less mugreube and binka and more small seafoods, soya, and sand turnip.  They order a mutli-course sampling menu and drink binka-sap wine.

About halfway through, Jessica smiles, leans in, and gives him a kiss.  

“What was that for?” he asks, surprised and happy, but also a little nervous.  

Jessica shrugs, tilts her head at him.  Her smile could light up the void between systems like a star.  “I missed you.  Everything is still...it’s a lot, but--”

He takes her hand in his and returns her kiss, slow and gentle.  She returns it eagerly, leaving him a little breathless when they break apart.  Sam blinks at her.  

“So we’re...we’re good?”  

“I don’t know.  But I want to try.”  

  
  


# # # 

  
  


Castiel steps out onto Bobby’s porch and squints into the sunlight.  He still doesn’t feel  _ well _ , but food and chems have helped him shake the worst of his hangover.  

He can see the  _ Impala _ clearly from here, though it takes him a moment to pick Dean out of the dance of automated assists and droids working on the repairs.  He hangs from the hull in his harness, the occasional flash of a welder glaring white as he installs a new section of plating.

Watching him, Castiel feels a pang of guilt.  It’s foolish, he knows, but he wishes he could help.  He’s never lost his talent with tools, even if he has to be selective about the the whens, wheres, and hows.

He tells himself he’d be more disruptive than useful right now, and the noise and rhythm of the work would make it difficult to get Dean’s attention in any case, but it’s small comfort.

Then again, he’d managed to stay in the cockpit on Corsin as Jo brought the ship up and into atmo, waiting until they’d found Dean and his stolen speeder to excuse himself to the galley to see to his own needs.

(Dean found him later, after the worst had passed.  They drank caf in silence, with Dean sitting across from him because he was still too keyed up to be touched.  He’d followed Dean into the cockpit when Jo went to bed and folded himself up in the copilot’s seat.  He woke up hours later, having dozed off while Dean kept watch.)

He turns away from the ship, and goes looking for the shop.  

It’s is more or less where Bobby described it, tucked behind the house and half-hidden by a pile of partially crushed landspeeders.  It’s purpose-built, not a pop-up, and the walls are lined with pegs and tools, and one of the workstations has a half-assembled engine waiting to be completed.  There are notes, too, and pictures stuck to the walls.  Some are schematics, others are personal.  Castiel looks over the shop, takes in the obvious clutter and years of dust and grease.

It feels well worked-in.  It’s a good place.  

He pulls one of the large doors open -- good place or no, his brain unhelpfully supplies him with an image of being trapped, and that’s enough -- and picks up a toolkit.  He’ll need a cutter at the very least if he’s going to gather materials from the salvage yard, and he’s already building a list of interesting objects he’d spotted during yesterday’s adventures with Jo.  Not that he knows what he’s doing exactly, but he’s read enough to experiment, and if they’re going to be here for a few days, he might as well make the most of it.

 

# # # 

 

Dean works into the night.

He eats rations from his own stores, climbing in and down through the open turret to get to his supplies.  He eats in the gunner’s seat, watching birds at midday and in the afternoon, and at sunset, he smiles at the stars as they appear in washes of red and violet.  He finally sends the hired droids away when the moons rise over the horizon.

The work isn’t done.  Even with the long hours and extra hands, he’s got another day at least, probably two.  And that’s assuming the seals all test clear and nothing goes wrong, and that he can keep working at this pace.  Which...well, that’s what stims and painkillers and everything else in his kit is for.

He slips in through the back door, and heads straight for the fresher.  He clears away the grime of the day, then wraps up in one of the old robes hanging from the back of the door before  crossing the hallway into the room he’s sharing with Cas.  

He tries to be quiet going through his pack, but by the time he’s found a pair of shorts to wear to bed and swallowed a handful of various tabs, Cas is peering at him, groggily rubbing his eyes.

“Was wondering if you were coming in tonight.”  

“I wanted to get the aft section sealed so we can reinstall the deflectors and finish up the plating tomorrow.”  He pulls his shorts on under his robe with a groan; his arms and back are officially pissed.  “Though at this rate, it’ll be a miracle if I can move tomorrow.”

Cas scoots back to make room for Dean to join him in bed.  His eyes flash in the dark, reflecting the low light back in eerie silver-blue.  “It sounds like you made good progress.”

“Yeah.”  He sits down on the bed’s edge, then curses under his breath as he settles in.  

“Anything I can do?”

“Put my brain in a droid chassis so I don’t have to deal with this shit?”

Cas snorts.  

They nestle up against one another in bed.  It’s becoming a familiar ritual, seeking Cas out when he needs to rest.  Having a bed and privacy is new, though.  There’s a whole world of possibilities there if they ever manage to get here without being blackout drunk or completely physically exhausted.  

Apparently Cas thinks so too.  He shifts against Dean’s back, his incipient erection pressing against Dean’s ass in tantalizing ways.  Dean makes an encouraging sound, reaching back to grip Cas’ thigh and pull him closer.  He might be wiped out, but the idea of Cas rutting up against him, using him for pleasure is weirdly arousing.

Cas gets the message loud and clear.  His arm tightens around Dean’s body as his hips begin to move.  His breath his hot and soft against the back of Dean’s neck, each huff in time with the motion of their bodies.  His hand drifts lower, down Dean’s chest to his waist, his hip.  He shifts again, pushing Dean onto his back.  Leans down to kiss --

And then he freezes, eyes wide.  He coughs, a weak, wet sound, as a trickle of blood drips down from his lips.  

“Cas?”

They look down in unison at the blade jammed into Cas’ chest, Dean’s hand still on the grip.  The silence lasts only a moment, broken when Cas coughs out another blood-choked breath.  Dean watches in horror as he slumps forward onto the mattress, eyes unfocused.  Glassy.  

“No.  Cas, _ no _ .  This isn’t...I didn’t…  _  Cas. _ ”  Dean grips Cas’ shoulder and shakes as if to wake him.  “Cas, wake up.  Come on, man.  Wake up.   _ Please wake u-- _ ” 

 

# # # 

 

“--up, Dean.  _  Wake up. _ ”

 

Dean startles awake, then scrambles back and away from him in a panic.  It’s impossible not to feel a jolt of guilt at that.  It’s the first time since the trip to Takodana that Dean’s gone to sleep without being blind drunk or with the two of them in a kind of shared meditation.  

Castiel holds his hands where Dean can see them.  “It’s okay.”

Dean shakes his head.  “No.”  

He’d been half asleep when Dean joined him in bed.  He’d held Dean close, instinctively protecting him with his body, and dozed off again without thinking.  And now all he can do is watch as Dean pulls his legs up tight against his body.   He’s cornered himself, eyes still not-quite focused.  He’s shaking.

“I forgot how bad the nightmares were.”  

“I’m sorry,” Castiel blurts.

“ _You're_ sorry?  I _killed_ you.”

“How?”  

Dean looks down and away.  “Does it matter?”

Castiel moves closer.  Not much -- he’s not sure what Dean wants or needs right now -- but close enough that either of them could reach out to touch the other.  

“Actually, um,” Dean starts, and glances uneasily at Cas.  “That thing I mentioned before.  About how I reacted to Sam?”  

“The intrusive thoughts?”  

“Yeah.  It's not...it wasn't the first time.”  He rubs at the back of his head, winces.  “That thing you did on the way to Takodana.  You said maybe we’d have to do it again.”  

Castiel looks down at his hands.  “I did.  But Dean, there’s no manual for this.  If I hurt you--”  

“You won’t.”  

“Actually, yes, I probably  _ will _ .”  Castiel glares at him; something in his chest aches.  “The deeper I go, the more painful it’s likely to be, with greater possibility of lasting harm.”  

“Well, between you and me, I kinda think your definition of ‘lasting harm’ is preferable to what I’ve already got going on.”  

“Dean, I’m serious.”  

“So am I.  I keep seeing this shit over and over, and every time it's like a part of me  _wants_ it _. _ ”

Castiel takes a deep breath, then motions for Dean to come closer.  He’s disappointed when Dean not only does, but reaches out to place Castiel’s hands on his temples.    

Castiel steels himself.  Goddess forgive him.

 

# # # 

 

Throne Sitri remains on her knee, head bowed, as Lucifer inspects her report. 

It is not a short document, and he turns each page of flimsi with almost impossible slowness.  The cold has long seeped into her bones, numbing her fingers and toes, and making every joint ache.  She clenches her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering.  It’s by will alone she does not shiver.

Eventually, he drops the document at his feet and stands.  

“This is...interesting work.”  

“Thank you, Lord.”

“It’s not  _ complete _ work, though, is it?”

“N-no, Lord.”  

“Still, the Alderaan connection is interesting.”  Lucifer paces, barefoot, in a wide circle around her.  “And you’re certain the brothers are accounted for?”

“Our operative confirms that they’re working from a location on Agamar, Lord.”

“Good.”  He stops in front of her, and crouches down on his haunches.  He grips her by the jaw and jerks her head up.  His eyes are ablaze.  His fingers are like ice against her skin.  “Now build on that success and locate the father.  I want that key.”

Lucifer pushes, not just with the force of his arm, but with a pulse of Force that sends her sprawling.  She gets to her feet, makes a final obeisance, and goes to work.  


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is both beauty and discord.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH HEY. IT'S THE LAST CHAPTER BEFORE NEW STAR WARS CANON HAPPENS. 
> 
> Believe me, when I started this thing, that is NOT a sentence I ever anticipated writing.

_ Breathe _ , Castiel warns.  Distantly, he can feel Dean clench his jaw.    

[It hurts]

_ I know.  I’m sorry.   _

It’s a puzzle, still, precisely what this work is.  If he’s repairing injuries to Dean’s brain -- chemical trauma or neurological damage -- it’s laughably indirect.  And this isn’t psychology, either.  He’s provided comfort and support to Dean, but the emotional effects of torture aren’t something he can mystically wave away, Force or no.

Yet, here he is, joined with Dean on a level that both relies upon and transcends those things, doing work neither of them understands because there’s nothing else they can do.  

He probes gently, seeking out the places that still feel raw and shattered.  It’s pure willpower on both their parts: for this to work, Dean must admit Castiel into these places without flinching or fighting, and Castiel must stay calm enough for both of them.

[Cas--]

_ Almost there.  Stay with me Dean. _

[I can’t]

_ You can. _

It’s different since Takodana.  Maybe it’s a side-effect of the amount of time the two of them have spent in a kind of tandem meditation, or if Dean’s mind has developed a rudimentary defense against further attack; either way, Dean is more present and aware.  

_ Keep breathing. _

In the days since Takodana, some of Dean’s wounds have begun to heal.  Castiel recognizes his own handiwork, the threads where things have begun to knit together cleanly despite the sheer brutality of Alistair’s treatment.  What’s becoming clear now, though, is that Alistair wasn’t just brutal, but deliberate: what Castiel had taken as lesser injuries before were instead subtle and meant to fester.  

_ Get ready. _

Dean’s body goes rigid as Castiel digs into a knot of infection and scar tissue, working it until something gives.  He fails to anticipate the intensity of the release, the agonizing tumult of a dozen memories stitched together in an endless cycle of feedback.  He tries to dissolve the threads that bind them together, fumbles, feels the world go out from under him --

[Cas]

\-- he’s in a blur of bloodied hands, a child’s hands picking through dust, just a  _ child  _ claiming a weapon, his father screaming --

[I’m here, Cas]

\-- another scene, a filthy spaceport ‘fresher suite, the cold metal of a blaster jammed hard against the back of his skull --

[I have you]

\-- the brutal crunch of a stunner slamming into a mark’s skull, the heavy ease of a kick to the guts, casually violent, efficient --

[Cas, please breathe]

\-- coughing up blood, just one more step, one more and he can stop --

[Please breathe, please wake up, please, Cas, just--]

# # #

“--wake up.  Come on, Cas.  That’s it.  Stay with me, man.”

Cas isn’t tracking, but his eyes are open and he’s breathing, and Dean lets out a sob of relief.  He’s eventually going to have to explain the screaming, and the fact that they’re in bed together, but that can wait because right now none of that matters.  All that matters is that Cas is alive and awake.

“Get me a pack of stims,” he barks at whichever one of them is going to do what he asks, then turns his attention back to getting Cas upright.  “And water.”  

He tunes everything out except for Jo’s arrival with the water and the stims.  He puts two tabs on Cas’ tongue and then feeds him water until he swallows.  He brushes his fingertips across Cas’ forehead.  

“C’mon, buddy.  Come back.”  

It takes longer than he likes for Cas’ eyes to focus.

“Dean?”  

The tension drops out of him so suddenly he has to put a hand on the wall.  “Oh, thank fuck.”  He forgets himself, kisses Cas on the forehead, pulls him in tight against his chest and just...  Everything hurts, nothing is okay, but--

“Alright, show’s over,” Bobby snaps.  “Everyone clear out.  I’m gonna make some caf.”  

Dean watches the others file out in his peripheral vision, waits until they’re alone again and the door is closed before he loosens his grip enough that Cas can scoot back and sit up on his own.  

He wavers, but Dean’s there to keep him steady.

“How’s your head?”

“Terrible.”  Castiel winces, squints at the light.    

“Bobby almost shot you.”

Cas peers at him, equal parts bafflement and consternation.

“It probably looked pretty fucked up in here.”

“At least one of us has the mental and emotional resources to make that determination.” Cas grimaces.  “How hard did you dose me?”

“Just a double.  Normal circumstances, that’d keep you up for twelve, maybe sixteen standard hours?”  He opens the packet, dry swallows two of his own.  “There.  Now we’re even.”  

“That was stupid.  You should be resting.”  Cas massages his temples, winces again.  “I’m sorry.”

“You’re seriously apologizing right now?”

“Considering that I nearly just killed  _ both  _ of us--”

“Cas, stop.”  He reaches out for Castiel’s hand and presses it gently to the place where he’d put it before, when he’d begged Cas to take the pain and confusion away.  Castiel tries to flinch away, but Dean holds his hand firm.  “Close your eyes.”

# # #

_ How did you-- _

[Shut up and look at this]

Castiel does as he’s told.

It takes him a moment to recognize Dean’s mind.  This is the very core of him, too deep for Castiel to even consider delving on his own, but he’s not here on his own.  He’s here  _ because of Dean. _  It takes longer for him to figure out how to process the experience into any kind of visual, but Dean helps, making subtle adjustments until --

_ Oh.   _

He’s reminded of navigational charts, of exploded technical diagrams, of fireworks.  It’s dazzling, hyperbeautiful beyond his ability to process --

[Over here]

Dean’s focus leads him, helps him to translate and discern the things Dean is showing him: a settling of things back into their right places, battered and damaged, but free now.  Able, perhaps, to resume their old shapes, to heal.

[There’s more of them, and I need your help breaking them open but--]

Castiel feels the burst of emotion almost as if it’s his own, fragile and intense.  It’s a dozen things at once.  Rage and relief.  Desperation.  Anger.  Sorrow.  And...other things not quite ready to to be named or acknowledged, though Castiel knows them.  He feels them too.

He’s shaking when Dean eases him back to consciousness.  He’s not surprised to feel tears on his skin.

“We’re gonna find that son of a bitch, Cas,” Dean says as their foreheads meet.  “We’re gonna take him apart.  Together.”

Their kiss is cut short by a tap at the door.  

“Dean?”  Jo opens the door only far enough to speak.  “Look, uh, I hate to interrupt whatever’s going on in here, but Sam’s asking a lot of questions, and Bobby’s...well, I’ve never seen him like this.”  

“I’ll be down in five.”

The loss of contact with Dean’s body almost hurts.

Castiel moves to the edge of the bed and watches him dress.  The stims are helping, though not as much as he could have hoped.  “Should I come along?”

“Honestly?”  Dean glances over his shoulder.  “I, uh...I have no idea.”  

“Then I’ll come.”  He pushes himself up onto his feet.  He’s unsteady, but he’ll manage.  

They dress in silence, staying close enough to touch.

# # #

Seeing the three of them -- Sam, Jess, and Bobby -- seated around the too-small kitchen table, makes him feel a little queasy.  

He glances back at Cas, still worn and woozy despite the stims, then turns to face the room.  

Jo’s the only one not at the table, leaned up against the counter with an apologetic look on her face.  Sam’s eyes are mostly on Cas, wary glances that border on hostile.  Jess is looking at both of them like they might attack at any moment.  And Bobby...

He sighs, crosses his arms.  He might as well get this over with.

“So you gonna stick me in a chair and take turns or what?”

“Might be easier.”  

There’s an edge in Bobby’s voice Dean hasn’t heard in awhile.  It’s almost enough for him to cut his losses, save Bobby the trouble of offering hospitality, but unless his ship fixed itself in the night...well, he doesn’t have a lot of choices.

Dean steps over to the counter, pours two mugs of caf, and hands one to Cas.  They end up next to Jo.  It feels like picking a side.  

“You want to explain what’s going on, son?”  

“Not really.”  

Sam sighs.  “Dean.”  

“Which part do you want an explanation for?  The fact that Cas was in my head, or the part where you found us in bed together?  I know which one Dad would have more of a problem with.”

“It ain’t your taste in bed partners we’re concerned about, Dean.”

“Well, great.  Since we’re good--”  

“I wasn’t finished.”  

Dean sets his jaw and settles back in against the counter.

“Now, I know Cas helped y’all out a couple of times--”  

“He literally saved our lives, Bobby.   _ Twice. _ ”

“--but he was up in your pilot’s seat, Dean, and ain’t no telling what he was getting up to in there.  No disrespect to the Jedi, but they ain’t exactly the most trustworthy people.”  

“He’s not a damn  _ Jedi _ ,” Dean bites out between clenched teeth.

“Well, whatever he is--”

“And he was in my head because I  asked him to get in there .”

Bobby balks.  “Come again?”

“Since Coruscant, my head’s been fucked.”  Dean glares into his mug.  “Cas...helps.”  

“Didn’t look like he was helping.”

“Didn’t ask you for your opinion.”

“Well, you get one when it wakes the whole damn house up.”  Bobby puts his mug down with a thump, then looks Sam’s way.  “He’s your brother.  Maybe you can talk some sense into him.”

Dean keeps his eyes down as Bobby leaves the room.

Sam clears his throat.  “Hey guys?  Can we, uh…”  

“Yeah, sure,” Jo says.  She takes Cas by the arm and leads him toward her makeshift bunk in Bobby’s study.  Jess looks less certain.

“It’s okay,” Sam tells her.  “I’ll meet you upstairs.”

She gives Dean a last uncomfortable glance, then hurries out.

Dean finishes his caf, puts his mug down on the counter.  “Well?”

His brother lets out a shaky breath.  “We’re not mad, Dean.  We’re scared.  With everything that’s going on with Dad, and Jess, and now you’re acting like a completely different person --”

_ Here it comes _ , Dean thinks and grits his teeth.

“-- and you’re just  _ trusting  _ this guy, sharing a bed with him, and we’ve known him, what, a couple of weeks?  And he says he’s not a Jedi, but he can, what?  See the future?  Move things with his mind?  We thought he was  _ killing  _ you!”  

“Yeah, well, he wasn’t.”

“Are you sure?”  

Dean blinks, glares.  “Yeah, Sam, I’m sure.”

“How?”

“Because I’m sure, alright?”  He pushes away from the counter, puts his mug down with a heavy thump.  “And by the way?  Next time you want to talk about acting like a completely different person, maybe don’t be the guy who ditched his family to  _ be a completely different person. _ ”  

Sam bristles, but doesn’t speak.  

“We done?”  

“Yeah, I guess so.”  

Dean moves for the door.  “Awesome.”

“You know they can read minds, right?  Put thoughts in your head?”

He stops.  Turns to look at Sam, his nerves already humming with a combination of stims, stress, and anger.  “What?”

“I’m just saying, Dean.  How he found you?  How he knew to stop us flying into the Hosnian Prime?  What if--”  

“You think Cas is playing us?”  

“Dad played us.  Why not Cas?  What if he's part of it?”  

“No, Dad...”  Dean swallows.  “Dad didn’t…”  

“Dad sent you his datapad and ditched, Dean.  He knew you’d come looking, knew what you were walking into--”  

“Stop.”  

“--and now he’s in the wind, and maybe he doesn’t want to be found.  Maybe Cas--”  

He’s on Sam almost faster than he can think, fingers dug into the fabric of his shirt.  “Shut the fuck up.”  Slamming him against the wall is probably a mistake, but he does it anyway.  The impact rattles the wall, and the footsteps…  

He storms out into the dark, barefoot and angry, before Bobby and Jo can get to the kitchen.  Fuck the ground, and fuck the way it digs into the soles of his feet.  It’s more gravel than duracrete even before he hits the rough, scrubby ground along the treeline of the windbreak behind Bobby’s house.  He storms into the trees, balls his hands into fists, and can’t decide if he wants to hit something or scream.  

# # #

Castiel stays awake.  

He can’t help it, thanks to the stims, but between what he overhears from the kitchen and the looks he’s catching from Bobby and Sam, he’s not sure he'd be able to even if he wasn't dosed.  And the sound of the back door slamming…  The only thing that stops him following is the fact it might make things worse.

“Give him some time,” Jo advises.  

So he does.  

He plays a couple of hands of sabacc with Jo until she beds back down.  He sits in the dark study and takes advantage of his ability to work in low light to examine some of Bobby’s old books without disturbing anyone else.

Eventually, he gives up waiting.  He goes up to the bedroom, as silently as he can, and puts on his boots and a jacket.  And then he picks up Dean’s and goes looking.

It doesn’t take long.  Dean’s not far from the house, sitting on the ground in a stand of trees.  He’s almost eerily still, save for the rhythmic tapping of his fingers on one knee.  Because, well.  Stims.

 

Castiel takes care to move into Dean’s field of view as he approaches and presents the jacket and boots silently.  Dean’s expression nearly crumbles -- he barely meets Castiel’s eyes -- but he takes them and pulls them on.

“I can leave if it makes things easier.”  Castiel says softly.  “Take the next ferry out, maybe catch up with Gabriel or Michael--”

“Please don’t go.”  

“Okay.”  He pauses, uncertain, before taking a seat on the ground beside Dean.  It’s hard, and and colder than he expects.  When Dean laces their fingers together, Castiel has to stifle a gasp; his hands are freezing.  “I should have brought a blanket.”  

Dean doesn’t reply.

Castiel adjusts his position so they’re pressed close, side-to-side.  “I started building something yesterday, out in Bobby’s shop.”  

“Yeah?”  

“Mm.”  He traces over Dean’s thumb with his own.  “I’m mostly tinkering if I’m honest.”  

“Hell of a time to pick up a hobby project.”  

“If it helps, I think it’s mostly to assuage my guilt over not being able to help you with the  _ Impala _ .”  

“Given you’re the reason I still have her in the first place, and the fact that Maz gave us enough credits to put her back together, I think we’re square.”  

“Still.”

They sit quietly for a long while after that.  They aren’t perfectly still -- the ground is hard and cold, and Dean keeps finding ways to fit them together in small ways -- but eventually Dean stands, holds his hand out to help Castiel to his feet.  

“You tired yet?”  

Castiel shakes his head.  Lets Dean help him up.  

“Good,” he says.  “Show me what you’re working on.”  


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which some things are complicated, some things come to fruition, and someone asks about teeth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY GUYS, I FOUND THE PORN. It was behind the sofa the whole time. Who knew?
> 
>  **Also, some warnings for this chapter:**  
>  \- depiction of intrusive thoughts, including suicidal ideation  
> \- depiction of some difficult emotional states in conjunction with physical intimacy
> 
> If anyone was thinking of lifting that ban on nice things where I am concerned...well...

Dean picks up a slim wedge of alusteel and turns it over, examining Cas’ work.  It’s reclaimed metal, but the part is sound.  Judging by the tool marks, it’s mostly hand-machined, despite the presence an auto-cutter on the far workbench.

He puts it back down next to couple of grooved carbo-plas cylinders, then looks over the rest of what Cas has collected: an assortment of various power cells, a fist-sized hunk of ceraglass, more bits of metal, a couple of switches.  It doesn’t take much for him to visualize how the parts could go together, but the crude diagram on Castiel’s datapad dispels any doubt.  “You know, for a guy who isn’t a Jedi--”

“I’m aware, yes,” Cas responds, rolling his eyes.

The corner of Dean’s mouth ticks up.  “So you actually know how to make one of these?”

“In principle, yes.  In practice?  Not really,” Cas admits, fidgeting with a thick ring in a reddish alloy Dean can’t identify offhand.  Looks like he’s not the only one feeling the stims.

“So this is going to take more than a couple of days.”   

“It could take years.”  Cas puts the part down, taps irritably at the work surface.  “I honestly never thought to see a lightsaber in person, let alone try to build one.”  

“And then Maz handed you that crystal.”  

“She has a funny way of changing people’s plans.”  

“Kinda getting that, yeah.”  Dean rubs the back of his head and bites his lip, glances back at Cas’ handiwork.  “So, uh, you want some help?  I can’t really do anything with the  _ Impala  _ until the sun’s up.”  

“You want to help?”  Cas blinks, an odd expression on his face.

“You’re building a freakin’  _ laser sword _ , Cas.  Why  _ wouldn’t _ I want in on that?”  

“Because I can’t…”  He shifts awkwardly, looks down at the workbench.  “Because this is a trinket.  A novelty.  There’s real work to be done, and I haven’t--”

Dean holds his hands up.  “Whoa, hold up.  You think I expect you to work on the ship?”  

“Expect, no.  But--”

“No way.  Someone tells you to work on her, you tell them I told you to prioritize Selonian net-weaving, or watching old holos.  Seriously, Cas, you could put up a hammock and drink binka nectar in front of me while I weld shit all day and I’d be good with that.”  

“As interesting as  _ that  _ view might be-- ”  

“Interesting?”

“Yes.  It’s  _ interesting  _ to watch somebody with no sense of self-preservation hang upside down while operating heavy tools in ways not intended by their manufacturers,” Cas says, mock-sour, but the smile is evident in his eyes.

“Hey, if the manufacturer didn’t want me to do cool things--”  

Cas’ kiss shuts him up.  They’re both running a little warm, but the pre-dawn air is cool, and he’s still not over the way they just  _ fit _ , bodies and lips and breath in wonderful sync.

“So, um,” Cas says, eyes darting to the pile of parts.  “Want to help me figure this out?”

“Hell yes.”

 

# # # 

 

Jess doesn’t want to wake up.  She prefers the black, dreamless sleep she manages on good nights.  Being awake -- being  _ alive  _ \-- is exhausting.  But the light and sounds of the day -- namely the noise of ship repair -- drags her into consciousness.  

She doesn’t move right away.  Sam is warm, and the smell of him is something she remembers being a comfort, even if right now it’s just...well, its familiar, and there’s little enough of that in her life anymore.

Beside her, Sam stirs in his sleep.  She watches him breathe, the small, darting motions of his eyes under their lids.  His face is soft, not quite boyish despite his shaggy hair.  She brushes a strand of it away, and is rewarded with a soft smile.  

“Hey,” he says, then sucks in a breath, stretches.

“Hey.”  

“You keeping an eye on me?” he teases as he turns back to face her.  

“Somebody has to.”

He’s undeniably gorgeous in the morning light.  Just a little rumpled, but his expression is as affectionate as it’s mischievous; it’s the closest to normal they’ve been since Dean brought her to Agamar.

She scoots closer and presses a quick, closed-mouth kiss to his forehead.  There’s a moment where the two of them are simply still before she rests a hand on his hip and moves in for a slower, softer kiss.  

He returns it, tentative.  

On impulse, she deepens it.  

They’ve shared a bed since she arrived here, been nearly inseparable, but they’ve stopped short of anything more intimate.  It felt...not wrong, exactly, but...not right, either.  Like they both needed time, maybe.

She feels the change in him almost immediately, the eager way his fingertips trace along her curves.  He moves from her mouth, to her jaw, her neck.  His morning stubble is rough against her skin, sending sparks of sensation through her body.  She presses closer, lets his thigh push between her legs.  She feels a familiar rush of adrenaline as his fingers slip under the hem of her shirt.  

“Is this okay?” he whispers into her ear.  “I don’t, um--”

“I want to,” she tells him.  She guides his hand up to her breast, kisses him again.  

It’s not a lie.  It’s not the whole truth, but it’s not a lie.  

“I want to, too,” he says, burying his face in the crook of her neck.  He slides an arm beneath her and rolls her onto her back, knees between her thighs before he sits up to pull off his shirt.  He lets it drop onto the floor beside the bed.  He’s beautiful like this too: strong and lean, all his angles painted in warm yellows by the sun.  

He leans down, kisses her again.  He helps her out of her own shirt before moving down to kiss her breasts, her collarbones, her throat.  She can feel him, hard already through the fabric of his sleep pants.  

She goads him on a little faster than she usually would.  More than anything she just wants him inside her.  She doesn’t want to think, or feel, or endure his emotional attention.  She lets him slick her up with fingers and his tongue, and when he finally moves over her and inside, she buries her face in the crook of his neck.

It feels fantastic.  It feels like nothing.  Her body is distant, like she’s watching them make love.  Sam, for his part, is attentive.  He knows her body, knows how to draw her climax out while he chases his own pleasure.  When she comes, she digs her nails into his skin, half in pleasure and half in anger.  She’s not sure at who.  Him?  Herself?  

All she knows is when they finish, the only thing she wants to be is alone.  She excuses herself to the fresher to clean up, and...well, stays there.  

She’s not even aware she’s crying until Sam taps softly on the door.  

“Can I come in?”

She sniffs, runs her fingers through her hair.  “Yeah.”  

He enters quietly, closes the door behind him, kneels on the floor beside where she sits on the toilet lid.  “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not you,” she whispers, voice rough from crying.  She wants to explain, but she hasn’t got the words.  Instead, she moves down and joins him on the floor, lets him bundle her in his arms while she cries.  He rocks her softly, kisses her hair while she weeps.  Her heart has broken a million times in such a short time.  She’s angry at everything, everyone, and nothing feels like it will ever stop hurting.  Even Sam hurts, just by being Sam.  

She should feel safe in his arms.  She loves him, she thinks, or at least, loves him more than she hates him.  But it’s hard.  Feeling anything is hard.  In the end, accepting his comfort is all she can do.

“I love you,” she tells him.  

“I love you too, Jess.  So much.”

It fixes nothing.

 

# # # 

 

Dean hums as he works, suspended in his harness from the hull of his ship.  He’s on way too many chems -- stims alone after a day like yesterday aren’t enough -- but the timetable means he’s got to work anyway.  Jo’s up here today, too, helping supervise the turret replacement work.  

He’d like to have Sam up here, too, but after last night, he’s starting to wonder if his brother’ll even be on board when they head out after Azazel.

(A brief, intense intrusive thought that involves smashing his welder against the hull of his ship until it collapses into a useless hunk of metal slams into his brain.  It takes every ounce of his willpower not to follow through.)

He whistles to one of the droids, signals for it to make a minor position adjustment, then pushes the section into place.  It slides home with a satisfying snap, and he pulls his goggles down over his eyes to begin the weld.  

Not for the first time today he thanks whatever forces in the galaxy for whatever it is allows his hands to stay this steady on so much junk.  He’d worried about that, in the early hours of the morning when he’d slipped into the house to raid his stash.  Fortunately, the shit Dug on Florrum sold him was meant for war zones, so…

_ I just wanted my goddamn family back. _

“Fuck,” he hisses and pulls his goggles up.  He glares at his work -- it’s fine, but…

Dean takes a breath, adjusts his harness position and his goggles, continues the work.  Grits his teeth at the way the thought just cycles and cycles through his brain, like a bad piece of code.

_ Mom died.  Sam left.  And then Dad -- _

His knuckles tighten dangerously on the welder.  

_ \-- Dad knew -- _

He releases the button, lets go, lets the welder dangle from the tether while he tries and fails to fight down the rage.  One of the droids turns its head his way, twitching its optics.  Dean waves it off, taps his comm.  

“Hey Jo, how’s the turret coming along?”

The faintest echo of Jo’s voice comes over the air just before it crackles through the feed.  “Demo’s done and we’re doing the last adjustments on the refit.  We’ll be sealing it within the hour, probably.”  

Dean looks at the position of the sun, does the math.  “Awesome.  Finish that, install the sensors, and skip anything we can finish up in orbit.”

A pause.  “Say again?”

“Seat it, seal it, do the hard shit, and call it good.  We’ll finish up in orbit.”

“Got it,” she answers.  

He waves the droid over, points out where the weld points need completion.  His hand moves for his magboot controls, but hovers over the the descent release on his harness.

It isn’t a coherent thought, or even something he really wants, but his brain supplies the whole thing anyway: a brief feeling of freedom before a fatal impact, an end to whatever this is, his friends having everything they need to get the fuck off this rock long before it even occurs to Crowley’s goons show up to punish them for him taking the easy way out.  

Dean engages the magnets, moves on to the next section of plating.  If there’s one thing Dean’s never had time for, it’s dying.  He’s burning daylight, and he’s got a damn ship to fix.

 

# # # 

 

It’s nearly sunset before Castiel leaves Bobby’s workshop.  The stims are a hard, lengthy sort of wakefulness, and once Dean left him for the day, he simply stayed where he was, learning by trial and error how to cut and shape the materials he’s gathered.  

He knows that this isn’t a task only for his hands.  According to the lore, some work will have to be done with the Force.  Whether he ever gets there...

By the end of the day, he has what he hopes are some viable -- if untested -- prototypes for a power assembly.  He packs them into a small case he scavenged from one of the hulks out in Bobby’s yard, and then steps out into the early evening cool.

When he turns towards Bobby’s house, it’s with reluctance.  His welcome after last night is, if not at an end, precarious.  He’s gone hungry and slept rough enough times he could stay out here, bed down in some wreck or another for the night.  It’s a childish impulse, but appealing nonetheless.  

He walks.  And then he stops.  And starts walking toward the  _ Impala _ .  

The harness on the ground is easy to adjust up from the smaller size it’s set to -- Jo, probably -- and the lines are simple enough to intuit.  Within minutes, he’s climbing onto the top of the _Impala_ ’s hull.  

Dean is more surprised to see him than he is to see Dean.  Castiel smiles, shakes his head, and moves across the hull plating to the nest of blankets where Dean is hunkered down, eating rations out of a dull gray packet.  

“Nice picnic,” he says as he sits down, shaking his head.  He picks a packet out of the stack Dean’s got next to his tools.  He doesn’t recognize half the languages printed on it, but there’s enough familiar iconography that he expects -- and is rewarded with -- some kind of soft fruit.

“What can I say?  I’m a romantic.”  Dean passes him a water bottle.  “If the seals test good in the morning, we should be ready to fly again tomorrow.”  

“That seems unusually optimistic.”  

“Yeah, well, I’m skipping some stuff.”  His eyes are on his hands.  “I just...everything’s fucked.  And the only way anything’s getting un-fucked is if I keep moving, you know?”  

“Is that why you’re camping on top of your ship?”  

“No, I’m camping on top of my ship because I’m letting the turret seals cure.  If that was done, I’d fire up the ventilation system and sleep in my own damn bed.”  

“Would it be overly optimistic to assume I’d be invited to that bed?” Castiel asks, picking through his fruit.  His eyes drift toward Dean.  “Or this one, such as it is?”  

“No, it would not.”  

He’s smiling now.  Both of them are, actually, as they move closer to one another.  They eat in companionable silence, sharing food from various pouches and packets as the sun sets.  It’s Dean who breaks the silence first, groaning as he pulls out the collar of his shirt to take a whiff.  

“I was gonna make a move, but that is  _ rank _ ,” he grumbles.  

“By make a move, you mean--”

“Exactly what you think,” Dean answers, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand.  

“I see.” Castiel edges closer.  He reaches out to turn Dean’s head to face him, then leans in to close the distance with a kiss.  

It’s far from their first, but it’s still electric.  Even with Dean filthy from a day’s labor and both of them riding the rough edge of two long days and chemical highs, physical contact between them remains a pleasure he wants more of.

His hand drifts from Dean’s face down to his chest.  He hums approval when Dean reaches out to grasp him by the waist and pull him closer.  

Goddess, this is so long overdue.  

“You’re right, you know,” he teases, tugging at Dean’s shirt, pulling it up over his head.  “You stink.”  

“But I’m pretty,” Dean answers, undoing Castiel’s shirt and sliding it down his shoulders.  “And fuck me, so are you.”  

“I could if you like.”  He makes a pleased noise, arching as Dean’s hands glide over his bare skin.  He lowers himself into the nest of blankets, pulls Dean down with him.  Leans up just far enough to capture Dean’s mouth again.  “Though for that, I think a bed would definitely be preferable.”

“And lube,” Dean chuckles into the crook of Castiel’s neck.  “Which, uh, I could probably improvise--”  

Castiel shifts back, expression incredulous.  “With something out of a ration packet?”

“You’re right.  That’s...yeah, let’s not.”  

And then they’re back on one another, hands and mouths hungry.  Dean’s hands move to Castiel’s belt and then his own.  They break apart briefly to deal with their own boots, but then return to their easy exploration of one another, the slow half-naked tease.

Dean’s hands pause on Castiel’s waistband.  “Uh, I probably should have asked this sooner, but bio-compatibility wise, anything I need to know?”  His eyes flick down as he bites his lip.  “Not saying I don’t like surprises, but...”

Castiel raises his eyebrows.  “Surprises?”

“You know.  Um.”  He flushes, gestures below their waists.  “Tentacles?  Caustic, uh, enzymes?  Teeth?”

Castiel blinks at him, expression almost utterly blank.  “Teeth.”  

“I’m just saying, I’ve seen some shit.”

“You’ve seen  _ teeth _ ?!”  

“Only once!”  Dean practically squeaks.  “And it was fine, once we figured out how to make it work.  I just, uh…”

Castiel shakes his head, kisses the words out of Dean’s mouth.  His hands move to Dean’s waistband.  He pushes it down down past his hips, starts kicking his own pants down his legs.  Skin-to-skin contact feels like a priority, Dean’s bizarre assumptions about his theoretical anatomy aside.

(He’s going to want that story later, so help him.)  

“You know, anyone with a decent pair of quadnocs’ll get a pretty good show,” Dean muses as he lays back, lets Castiel straddle his thighs.

“So let them watch,” Castiel says.  Castiel runs his hands across Dean’s skin.  He lingers on a round tattoo just below Dean’s collarbone.  An unfamiliar symbol.  He wonders what it means, but that (like the  _ teeth _ ) can be a conversation for another time.  

He caresses the broad planes of Dean’s chest, thumbs circling his nipples before brushing over them.  The reality of him laid out like this, naked and aroused, is better than Castiel had imagined.  And he has imagined it.  Several times.  

Now, though, he’s free to lean down, to kiss and nip at the tender parts of Dean’s throat.  “Touch me,” he murmurs into Dean’s ear as he takes Dean’s cock into his own hand.  

It’s an easy sort of lovemaking, keeping each other warm on top of the ship.  They’ve spent so much time being physical with one another that it feels almost familiar.  They chuckle and murmur encouragements, taking turns stroking themselves and each other.  Castiel nearly loses his breath when Dean takes them both in hand, sweet pressure and friction mingling with a primal awareness of shared pleasure.

They rock and grind together, kissing as they bring each other off, their come mingling on Dean’s belly.  The look on Dean’s face as Castiel licks him clean is worth more than all the credits in the galaxy.

It’s full dark by the time they pull their clothes back on.  They nestle up against one another to watch the sky.  

“We could sleep out here,” Dean offers.

“Should we?”  

Dean shakes his head.  “Probably not.  Want to help me get this cleaned up?”  

“Of course.”  Castiel plants a soft kiss on Dean’s temple and then begins gathering up the trash.  


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a tenuous peace is achieved, and a grand fuckening is hinted at.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you just have to use the words "grand fuckening" in your summary, okay?

The evening passes without incident, a fact for which Jo is grateful.

Dinner is, admittedly, strained.  It’s just her at the table with Sam, Jess, and Bobby, and while a line hasn’t quite been painted down the middle of things with them on one side and her (and Dean and Cas) on the other, it’s close.  

The reaction when she mentions that the  _ Impala  _ should be spaceworthy by mid-afternoon tomorrow is not encouraging.  Sam looks awkward, Jess looks...well, like Jess.  And Bobby changes the subject.

She gives Bobby a sour look, but she doesn’t push.  If Sam and Jess want to do whatever it is Core brats do, that’s up to them, even if she knows how Dean’ll take it.

She excuses herself to her makeshift bunk in the study afterward, quietly cursing the fact that it’s just her in this house with a bunch of goddamn traitors.  Whatever’s keeping Dean and Cas, they need to finish it up, or she needs to get in on it.  

About an hour later, when they come in together -- through the front door, but quietly, rumpled and not quite holding hands -- she revises that to maybe letting her watch.   _ Maybe.   _ Or maybe not.  Dean’s a little too much like a brother for that not to be weird.   

“You missed food.”

“We’re good.”  Dean looks around, craning his neck to look toward the kitchen.  “Where is everyone?”

“Sam and Jess are upstairs.  I think Bobby’s out back.”  

“Probably just as well.”  He takes a seat on the edge of Bobby’s desk, with Cas joining him.  “You think it’s just us tomorrow?”  

She frowns, shrugs.  “I’m having trouble getting a bead on your brother.  Pretty sure something’s up with him, but he plays his cards close enough to his chest they might as well be his shirt.”

Dean snorts.  “Yeah, well.  Wherever Jess goes--”   

“He’ll go, yeah.”

Cas leans closer, squeezes Dean’s hand.  Jo’s already opening her mouth to make a smartass comment when the back door creaks open.  

Dean sighs.  “And that’ll be Bobby.”  He exchanges a look with Cas, who nods and stays put.

Jo watches him leave, then turns her attention to Cas.  “So’d you finally take our boy out for a spin or what?”  

Cas chuckles and looks down, cheeks and ears visibly going pink.  

“Nice.”  She grins.  “You know I’ll gut you if you hurt him, right?”

His smile breaks into a grin.  “I assumed that was a given.”  

“Damn right it is.”  She settles back on the couch, nursing the warm burst of affection in her chest.    

 

# # # 

 

“Took you long enough to come in for the night,” Bobby grumbles.

Dean shrugs.  “I had work to do.”

Bobby snorts and opens the refrigerator.  He pulls out a couple of beers, and passes one to Dean.  So hospitality’s still in play, then.

“Jo says you’re shipping out tomorrow.”  

“Hoping to.”  He takes a long drink.  His eyes are more or less fixed on the baseboards in an effort not to look as awkward as he feels.  

“You taking everyone?”  

“Everyone that’ll come along.”

Bobby makes a noncommittal noise and lifts his own bottle to his lips.  

“Look, Bobby, whatever you’ve got to say--”

“You and I both know what I say ain’t gonna make a damn difference.”  

Dean blinks, startled, and turns his head to face him.

“What, you think I half-raised you and your brother without knowing how damn stubborn you boys are?” Bobby grumbles, a tired expression on his face.  “Couple of bantha-headed idjits, the both of you.”

He can’t help but half-chuckle at that.  His eyes flick down to his shoes.

“Just...don’t go runnin’ out of here because you think you have to.  I won’t lie, Dean.  Cas -- whatever he is, whatever it is you two get up to -- scares the hell out of me, but that ain’t reason enough for me to turn you out.  Or him.  You understand me?”

Dean nods.  “Yes, sir.”

“Good.”  Bobby gives him a slap on the back.  “Now stop stinkin’ up my kitchen and hit the ‘fresher before my damn paint starts peeling.”

 

# # # 

 

Sam can’t sleep.  Beside him, on the bedside table, the message indicator on his datapad begins to flash.  Again.

He dismisses it with a tap of his finger.  Squeezes Jess a little closer.  She makes a soft sound in her sleep.  He watches her breathe, wonders if she’s dreaming.

The light starts flashing again.  

He doesn’t have to deal with this.  They’re leaving Agamar tomorrow to chase after Bela, and it’s not like he and Ruby have any mutual friends.  All  _ his _ friends are dead.  But every time he tells himself that he’s got no rational obligation to acknowledge her, he gets an itchy sort of feeling that maybe he does.  

It makes him anxious.  Angry.  And maybe a little worried, too.  Like maybe he’s not the only one who regrets that night.  Like maybe it’s his fault that they did whatever they did.

At the very least, she needs to know he’s not interested.  She doesn’t have to know why.  He just needs her to...to go away.

Okay.  So he’s doing this.  

Getting out of bed without disturbing Jess is tricky, but he manages it, disentangling limbs and easing off the mattress without waking her.  He carries the datapad down the stairs and out the back door of Bobby’s house before he even dares to turn on the screen.  

He scrolls the messages as he walks far enough away from the house not to be overheard.  They’re vague, mostly requests for him to acknowledge her or call her back.  

Sam deletes all but the last one, then taps on the respond code.  

“Sam,” she answers, almost immediately.  The holo is low-rez -- like she’s in the dark -- but he catches some details of the space around her.  “ _ Finally _ .”  

“Yeah, sorry.  It’s--”

“Hang on,” she says, reaching over to turn on a light.  The holo gets clearer right away, her features resolving into something more recognizable.  “I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for, like, a day.  What the hell?”

“Kinda busy looking for my dad,” he snaps.  It’s a convenient excuse if nothing else.

“Yeah, well that’s  _ kind of _ why I’ve been trying to get in touch.  I was looking at the records for the artifacts I pulled about the Spear, and I found something crazy.  Your dad?  He was  _ here. _ ”

“What?!”

“Yeah, like two weeks before you.”

Shit.  “Okay.  Uh, any info on what he was doing?  Or where he might have gone from here?”

Ruby adjusts the position of her datapad.  Her holo judders for a moment, the angle shifting while she taps on the screen.  “I’m sending you the file dump, but he pulled a bunch of stuff from Alderaan as well as the stuff relating to the Spear, as well as a couple of old star maps.”

There’s a gentle chime as her files arrive, images and annotations and check-out histories.  It’s more than he can go over in a moment, but definitely the sort of thing that’ll help him in the longer term.  

“Anyway, that’s it.  I’ll let you know if I catch anything else.”  

He sees her hand move forward to end the call, but finds himself saying, “Hey, wait.”  

“Yeah?”

“Look, um.  Thank you,” he says, shifting awkwardly on his feet.  “I should have answered you before now.  It’s just, uh--”

“Don’t worry about it,” she says, rolling her eyes.  “You’re not the only guy to ditch after the first date.  Though if you ever want to give it another try--”  

“Uh, no,” he sputters.

Ruby wrinkles her nose in offense, then shrugs.  “Your loss.  Good night, Sam.”  

The holo goes dark.  He lets out a breath, scrubs a hand down his face.  Collects himself.

“Sam?”  

He startles, looks up to spot Jess standing on the porch.  “Jess.  Hey,” he trots toward the house, datapad tucked under his arm.  “Sorry.  Did I wake you?”  

“What are you doing out here?”

“One of our contacts at the University had something for me.  About Dad.”  

She frowns.  “In the middle of the night?”  

“Oh, like you never pulled an all-nighter.”  He pulls her into his arms and kisses her forehead.  “Come on.  Let’s go back to bed.”  

 

# # # 

 

Dean sleeps through the alarm he sets on his chrono.  Or maybe he disables it in his sleep.  Castiel doesn’t recall turning it off at any rate, though he does remember pulling a groggy Dean back down into bed at some point before sunup.

The sun’s here now, though, streaming brightly through the window, and it doesn’t matter how warm they are tangled here together -- or how many mumbled protests Castiel manages -- Dean’s determined to get up.  

“Gotta help Jo get the ship ready,” he murmurs.

“Jo can handle it.”

“Yeah, but unless I missed another mutiny in the night, it’s still my ship.”  Dean gives him a quick kiss, then rolls to the edge of the bed.  

The sound Dean makes -- and the sudden burst of pain Castiel can feel echoing between them -- snaps him awake.  He winces as he sits up, more out of sympathy than anything else, and watches as Dean picks through his bag.  

He pulls out a pair of mismatched hypos and doses himself with worryingly casual expertise.  

“I just need the day,” Dean tells him, catching his concerned expression.  “Once we get into hyperspace, you can pin me into any bed you want.”  

“Because I’m certain that would be conducive to you getting something that resembles actual rest,” Castiel says as he scoots up behind him.  He rests his chin on Dean’s shoulder and peers at the hypos.  It eases his concerns a little -- it’s nothing too exotic, one for pain and one to boost recovery -- but black market chems as a regular feature of day-to-day life gives him pause.  “Although taking the knots out of your muscles the old fashioned way has a certain appeal.”  

“Yeah?”  Dean turns slightly, his lips suddenly tantalizingly close.  

“Mm hm,” he murmurs, one hand reaching out to rest on Dean’s thigh.  “I’m told it’s extremely therapeutic.”    

They drift closer, lips only millimeters shy of a kiss when the knock on the door stops him short.  Dean sighs, adjusts, and stands as Castiel pulls back and sits cross-legged on the bed.  

“Yeah?”  

“Hey,” Sam says, opening the door.  “So my contact at the University sent me some new info on Dad last night, and Bobby and I think if we can nail down some coordinates--”

“Hold up.  You’re still in?”

Sam blinks.  “Well, yeah.”  

“Just you?  Or you and Jess?”

Sam sighs, rolls his eyes as he adjusts his stance.  “Look, Dean, I’m not saying it’s not complicated, but yeah, we’re in.  Both of us.  It’s Dad.  She gets it.  And with the whole Bela thing, if we play this right--”

“If we play this right, we get the son of a bitch that killed Mom on the way.”

“Exactly.  Dean, we can  _ stop _ .  For good.  Have real lives.”  

“Right,” Dean says, eyes flicking down before meeting Sam’s again.  Castiel flinches at the intensity of the hurt and anger that begins to radiate from him, despite the impassive expression on Dean’s face.  “Anyway, you had stuff from your contact?”  

Sam leans in, shares his datapad as he goes over what he’s found, but it’s hard to concentrate on that over the storm of Dean’s emotions.  Castiel finds himself simply watching without processing what he’s hearing.   

It’s only after Sam leaves and the door closes that he realizes he’s been holding his breath.  

Dean squeezes his eyes closed.  Takes a breath.  

“Dean--”

“I’m fine.”  He opens his eyes, glares at nothing in particular.  “I just...let’s just get things going.  The sooner we get this done the sooner…”  He pauses, looks Castiel’s way.  “Anyway.”  

“Of course.”

They dress in silence, barely touching.  There’s something in Dean’s expression -- something hard and dangerous and sad, and as much as Castiel might want to drive that hurt away, he knows that all he can do is be here when Dean is ready.  

For now, there’s work to do.

 

# # # 

 

The seals are sound, and the last of the critical systems are online -- shields, sensors, communications array -- when he brings the  _ Impala  _ into orbit.  It’s just him and Jo finishing up out here, and he’s grateful they both know what they’re doing because every goddamn minute he has to spend in microgravity is like a minute in his own personal hell.  Still, he’s grateful to have something to do with his hands.  

They bring her back down a couple of hours later, set her to run some final diagnostics, and then Dean gets busy with load-in.  

It’s quick thanks to Bobby’s equipment.  He sends Jo out on a last supply run to get their galley stocked for five while he sees to a final preflight check.  It’s been too damn long since they set down on Agamar with a busted ship and a crisis and he’s ready to get back underway.

To judge by B4-8Y’s mood, he’s not the only one feeling antsy.

“Yeah, well, maybe next time I’ll just take the whole turret out completely if you hate the new one so much.”

The whistles he gets in return are...uncomplimentary.  He laughs.

“Talking to your ship again?” Sam asks, sliding into the copilot’s seat.  

“You see anyone else around here worth talking to?”

“Jerk.”  

Dean snorts.  He watches Sam take over the preflight tasks on the copilot’s console.  He’s rusty, but Dean doesn’t have it in him to complain.  “Might as well enjoy this while it lasts, huh?  Having you in the cockpit.”

“Guess so.”  Sam cracks an uncertain smile.  “You think Dad’ll be pissed if we take out Azazel without him?”

“I think he’ll be more pissed if we don’t take a shot.”  Dean flips two last switches, checks the read-outs.  “But yeah.”

“It’s hard to believe this might all be over soon.”

“Well, don’t start picking out curtains just yet.  We’ve still got to catch up with this bastard before we can do anything.”  

B4-8Y chirps her report: the  _ Impala _ is up-to-spec and ready to do her thing.  

“Go let everyone know we’re ready to go,” he says.  “We take off in ten.”

 

# # # 

 

A cloaked figure flickers, the holo’s voxels distorted by the long-distance transmission.  

“Report.”

“I’m sending the data now,” she replies, tapping at the controls of the sliced transmitter.  It’s risky, but synchronous communications are sometimes necessary.  “I’m including the additional data I found researching the father’s movements as well.”  

“Excellent.  And the tracker?”

“Functional and transmitting.  If the Winchesters are aware they’ve been compromised, they’re concealing it well.”  She smiles.  “Sam Winchester remains, of course, a potential asset.  Given the right motivation, and your guidance--”

A crushing cold encircles her throat, cutting off her words.  She strains against it reflexively, her fingers clutching for a hand that isn’t physically there.

“If I wanted your advice on who deserved to be a vessel of my power, I’d have asked for it,” Lucifer snaps before lowering his hand, releasing her.

“Of course, my Lord,” she gasps.  “What are your orders?”

“Finish out the week on Agamar, then return to your ship.  If the sons are in motion, I want you one step behind.”

“It will be done, Lord.”  

The holo goes still, then cuts out as the connection ends.  

Ruby disconnects her datapad from the University console, then scrubs the data from memory before inserting the code that will erase her entirely from the database when she departs.  She’ll miss this identity, this role, but it’s nothing compared to the glory to come.

The Galaxy -- The Rim, the shreds of the Republic, even the First Order -- will kneel before her Master.  

It will be Perfect.


End file.
